What's wrong with men?" Tenar inquired cautiously. As cautiously, lowering her voice, Moss replied, "I don't know, my dearie. I've thought on it. Often I've thought on it. The best I can say it is like this. A man's in his skin, see, like a nut in its shell." She held up her long, bent, wet fingers as if holding a walnut. "It's hard and strong, that shell, and it's all full of him. Full of grand man-meat, man-self. And that's all. That's all there is. It's all him and nothing else, inside.

Great self-destruction follows upon unfounded fear.

There are dance artists, painting artists and writing artists. Authors are writing artists. You can practice art in whatever medium you choose, and words are mine.

We broke the world to make it whole.

Virginity is now a mere preamble or waiting room to be got out of as soon as possible; it is without significance.

One must work with time and not against it.

O foolish writer. Now moves. Even in storytime, dreamtime, once-upon-a-time, now isn't then.