To My Mind, Guernica Is The Most

Above All, In My Anger, I Was Sad. Isn't That Always The Way, That At The Heart Of The Fire Is A Frozen Kernel Of Sorrow That The Fire Is Trying -- Valiantly, Fruitlessly -- To Eradicate.

I Measure My Life Out In Books." "you Should Be Measuring Your Life By Living. Correction: You Shouldn't Be Measuring Your Life. What's The Point?

There Questions Of Wanting To Be An Artist, And What Does That Mean, What Makes You An Artist? Are You An Artist If You're In A Gallery In New York And Not An Artist If You're Doing It At Home? Do You Need Legitimation To Count? If You've Been Acculturated To Believe That You Have Certain Obligations - Familial, Social, Human - If Multitasking Has Been Your Forte And That's What's Been Praised And Rewarded, Where Do You Find The Single-mindedness, The Selfishness To Do Something Like Art? I Think Those Are Questions That Arise Differently For Women And For Men.

I Wanted To Write A Voice That For Me, As A Reader, Had Been Missing From The Chorus: The Voice Of An Angry Woman.

Does Being Happy Simply Create More Time, In The Way That Being Sad, As We All Know, Slows Time And Thickens It, Like Cornstarch In A Sauce?).