I Don't Really Believe In Stories, Only

The True Self Seeks Release, Not Constraint. It Doesnt Want To Be Corseted In A Sonnet Or Made To Learn A System Of Musical Notations. It Wants Liberation, Which Is Why Very Often It Fastens On The Novel, For The Novel Seems Spacious, Undefined, Free.

I Suppose, I Said, It Is One Definition Of Love, The Belief In Something That Only The Two Of You Can See.

Hope Is Like One Of Those Orchids That Grows Around Toxic Waste: Lovely In Itself - And An Assertion, If You Like, Of Indefatigable Good - But A Sure Sign That Something Nasty Lies Underneath.

It's A Pretty Brutal Process, Having A Baby.

As It Stands, Motherhood Is A Sort Of Wilderness Through Which Each Woman Hacks Her Way, Part Martyr, Part Pioneer; A Turn Of Events From Which Some Women Derive Feelings Of Heroism, While Others Experience A Sense Of Exile From The World They Knew.