It is a sad paradox that when male authors impersonate women … they are said to be dealing with ‘cosmic, major concerns’ – but when we impersonate ourselves we are said to be writing ‘women’s fiction’ or ‘women’s poetry.

Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for.

What makes a Man love Death, Fanny? Is it because he hopes to avert his own by watchin’ the Deaths of others? Doth he hope to devour Death by devourin’ Executions with his Eyes? I’ll ne’er understand it, if I live to be eight hundred Years. The Human Beast is more Beast than Human, ’tis true.

As a reader, I want a book to kidnap me into its world. Its world must make my so-called real world seem flimsy. Its world must lure me to return. When I close the book, I should feel bereft.

If, every day, I dare to remember that I am here on loan, that this house, this hillside, these minutes are all leased to me, not given, I will never despair.

I am against censorship. I prefer the chaos of uncontrollable communication of all sorts to selective banning of certain materials. I do not think human beings can be trusted to be above politics and to promote the common good. One group’s common good is another group’s evil.

Spring, / you are a pinking shears: you cut / fresh edges on the world.

What I discovered was is that it’s rare to find a person that you feel very intimate with, and you can sleep with lots of people and not find what you’re looking for.

You can’t be creative and still be a good girl.

Birth is the start of loneliness and loneliness the start of poetry.

Ken, my husband, just smelled like he belonged to me. I’m not talking about hygiene. I’m talking about when you hug him, he either feels like a member of your tribe or not. It’s their scent.

It was easy enough to kill yourself in a fit of despair. It was easy enough to play the martyr. It was harder to do nothing. To endure your life. To wait.