In Communist Countries, You Execute Your Poets.

Like I'm Dragging Bundles Of Old Clothes? I'm Carrying Artifacts That Breathe Fire. I'm Talking About A Language Of Smoke. These Are Three-dimensional Creatures That Can Mate. I'd No More Leave Them Go By The Side Of The Trail Than I Would My Child. I'll Carry Them Until Someone Amputates My Arms.

To Be One Woman, Truly, Wholly, Is To Be All Women. Tend One Garden And You Will Birth Worlds.

I Knew A Book Of Mine Was Finished When I Was In Intensive Care.

In Communist Countries, You Execute Your Poets. In The Free World, The Poets Execute Themselves.

If You Can Be Anything Else But A Writer, Be It.