Time Granted Does Not Necessarily Coincide With

The Clock Talked Loud. I Threw It Away, It Scared Me What It Talked.

Literary History And The Present Are Dark With Silences . . . I Have Had Special Need To Learn All I Could Of This Over The Years, Myself So Nearly Remaining Mute And Having To Let Writing Die Over And Over Again In Me. These Are Not Natural Silences--what Keats Called Agonie Ennuyeuse (the Tedious Agony)--that Necessary Time For Renewal, Lying Fallow, Gestation, In The Natural Cycle Of Creation. The Silences I Speak Of Here Are Unnatural: The Unnatural Thwarting Of What Struggles To Come Into Being, But Cannot.

More Than In Any Other Human Relationship, Overwhelmingly More, Motherhood Means Being Instantly Interruptible, Responsive, And Responsible

I Could Not Live By Literature If Only To Begin With, Because Of The Slow Maturing Of My Work And Its Special Character.

There Are Worse Words Than Cuss-words, There Are Words That Hurt.