I am not sinuous or suave; I sit among you abrading your softness with my hardness, quenching the silver-grey flickering moth-wing quiver of words with the green spurt of my clear eyes.

“for women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places;”

“Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, th…”

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”

“And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.”