As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.

The history of most women is hidden either by silence, or by flourishes and ornaments that amount to silence.

No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.

The root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.

Language is wine upon the lips.

Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.

Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?