The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A

Words Are Our Life. We Are Human Because We Use Language. So I Think We Are Less Human When We Use Less Language.

I Don't Think I Would Have Been A Writer If I Hadn't Been A Mother. I Wanted To Construct Something That Contained Some Of These Feelings That I Had, Some Of These Discoveries Or Revelations.

So This Is Where The Years Of Maturity Deliver Us - To This Needy, Selfish, Unwieldy Wish To Be Somebody Else's First And Primal Other.

And Yet, Within Her Anxiety, Secured There Like A Gemstone, She Carries The Cool And Curious Power Of Occasionally Being Able To See The World Vividly. Clarity Bursts Upon Her A Spray Of Little Stars. She Understands This, And Thinks Of It As One Of The Tricks Of Consciousness; There Is Something Almost Luxurious About It.. The Narrative Maze Opens And Permits Her To Pass Through. She May Be Crowded Out Of Her Own Life - She Knows This For A Fact And Has Always Know It - But She Possesses, As A Compensatory Gift, The Startling Ability To Draft Alternative Versions.

A Woman's Life Isn't Worth A Plateful Of Cabbage If She Hasn't Felt Life Stir Under Her Heart. Taking A Little One To Nurse, Watching Him Grow To Manhood, That's What Love Is.