Very Early In My Life It Was

A Woman's Work, From The Time She Gets Up To The Time She Goes To Bed, Is As Hard As A Day At War, Worse Than A Man's Working Day. ... To Men, Women's Work Was Like The Rain-bringing Clouds, Or The Rain Itself. The Task Involved Was Carried Out Every Day As Regularly As Sleep. So Men Were Happy - Men In The Middle Ages, Men At The Time Of The Revolution, And Men In 1986: Everything In The Garden Was Lovely.

The Words Emerge From Her Body Without Her Realizing It, As If She Were Being Visited By The Memory Of A Language Long Forsaken.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

Frigidity Is Desire Imagined By A Woman Who Doesnt Desire The Man Offering Himself To Her. Its The Desire Of A Woman For A Man Who Hasnt Yet Come To Her, Whom She Doesnt Yet Know. Shes Faithful To This Stranger Even Before She Belongs To Him. Frigidity Is The Non-desire For Whatever Is Not Him.

I Know It's Not Clothes That Make Women Beautiful Or Otherwise, Nor Beauty Care, Nor Expensive Creams, Nor The Distinction Of Costliness Of Their Finery. I Know The Problem Lies Elsewhere. I Don't Know Where. I Only Know It Isn't Where Women Think.