Routine Is Not A Prison, But The

For To Be Desperate Is To Discover Strength. / We Die Of Comfort And By Conflict Live.

They Are Commiting Murder Who Merely Live.

It Is Harder For Women, Perhaps To Be 'one-pointed,' Much Harder For Them To Clear Space Around Whatever It Is They Want To Do Beyond Household Chores And Family Life. Their Lives Are Fragmented... The Cry Not So Much For A 'a Room Of One's Own' As Time Of One's Own. Conflict Become Acute, Whatever It May Be About, When There Is No Margin Left On Any Day In Which To Try At Least To Resolve It.

Making Order Out Of Disorder Any Time, Anywhere, Can Be Regarded As A Sacrament.

I Suppose I Have Written Novels To Find Out What I Thought About Something And Poems To Find Out What I Felt About Something.