Women's imaginary is inexhaustible, like music, painting, writing: their stream of phantasms is incredible.

Men have committed the greatest crime against women. Insidiously, violently, they have led them to hate women, to be their own enemies, to mobilize their immense strength against themselves, to be the executants of their virile needs.

There is hidden and always ready in woman the source; the locus for the other. The mother, too, is a metaphor. It is necessary and sufficient that the best of herself be given to woman by another woman for her to be able to love herself and return in love the body that was “born” to her. Touch me, caress me, you the living no-name, give me my self as myself.

Women should break out of the snare of silence. They shouldn't be conned into accepting a domain which is the margin or the harem.

Let the priests tremble, we're going to show them our sexts!