How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.

In writing, you must kill all your darlings.

You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.

I am not one of those women who can stand things.

Men have been pacifists for every reason under the sun except to avoid danger and fighting.

I think that no one individual can look at truth. It blinds you. You look at it and you see one phase of it. Someone else looks at it and sees a slightly awry phase of it. But taken all together, the truth is in what they saw though nobody saw the truth intact.

We must just stay awake and see evil done for a little while it's not always.