* For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
* Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
* The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
* There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, ‘Consume me’.
* As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
* I have lost friends, some by death…others by sheer inability to cross the street.
* I am rooted, but I flow.
* For it would seem – her case proved it – that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
* Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
* Really I don’t like human nature unless all candied over with art.
* Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.
* For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of – to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others… and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
* She thought there were no Gods; no one was to blame; and so she evolved this atheist’s religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.
* I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.
* But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
* Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it’s place.