Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every

A Woman Who Thinks She Is Intelligent Demands The Same Rights As Man. An Intelligent Woman Gives Up.

There Are Connoisseurs Of Blue Just As There Are Connoisseurs Of Wine.

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.

To A Poet, Silence Is An Acceptable Response, Even A Flattering One.

The Only Virtue On Which I Pride Myself Is My Self-doubt; When A Writer Loses Her Self-doubt, The Time Has Come To Lay Aside Her Pen.