How Withered Away One Can Be From

Leaning Her Silly, Beautiful, Drunken Head On My Shoulder, She Said, "oh, Esther, I Don't Want To Be A Feminist. I Don't Enjoy It. It's No Fun." "i Know," I Said. "i Don't Either." People Think You Decide To Be A "radical," For God's Sake, Like Deciding To Be A Librarian Or A Ship's Chandler. You "make Up Your Mind," You "commit Yourself" (sounds Like A Mental Hospital, Doesn't It?). I Said Don't Worry, We Could Be Buried Together And Have Engraved On Our Tombstone The Awful Truth, Which Some Day Somebody Will Understand: We Wuz Pushed.

How Withered Away One Can Be From A Life Of Unremitting Toil.

Art Is Collective. Always, It Has A Tradition Behind It.

I'm Not A Girl. I'm A Genius.

There Are Plenty Of Images Of Women In Science Fiction. There Are Hardly Any Women.