Life goes on, even if two-headed and glowing faintly in the dark.

We are volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our truth, as human truth, all the maps change. There are new mountains.

All knowledge is local, all truth is partial. No truth can make another truth untrue. All knowledge is part of the whole knowledge. Once you have seen the larger pattern, you cannot go back to seeing the part as the whole.

The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

Even a poet cannot get everything right.

Truth is a matter of the imagination.

Her work, I really think her work is finding what her real work is and doing it, her work, her own work, her being human, her being in the world.