I'm so used to being misunderstood.

I wouldn’t mind being labeled as “angry,” if it wasn’t used once again to denigrate and belittle.

That the world I was in could be soft, lovely, and nourishing was more than I could bear, and so I stood there and wept, for I didn’t want to love one more thing in my life, didn’t want one more thing that could make my heart break into a million little pieces at my feet.

The night-soil men can see a bird walking in trees. It isn’t a bird. It is a woman who has removed her skin and is on her way to drink the blood of her secret enemies. It is a woman who has left her skin i a corner of a house made out of wood. It is a woman who is reasonable and admires honeybees in the hibiscus.

In my writing I’m trying to explore the violations people commit upon each other. And the important thing isn’t whether I’m angry. The more important thing is, is it true? Do these things really happen?

I think a woman is powerless if she cannot freely claim the right to her reproductive capacity. Society can talk about anything it likes, except a woman’s reproductive existence.

If I actually ran the world, I’d do it from the kitchen. It’s not anything deliberate or a statement or anything, that’s just how I understand things. It’s arranged along informal lines.

When I’m writing, I think about the garden, and when I’m in the garden I think about writing. I do a lot of writing by putting something in the ground.

I like to be in my pajamas all day. Sometimes I don’t wash for days because I like to read and sit around. I like to eat in bed.

At the door I planted a kiss on Paul’s mouth with an uncontrollable ardor that I actually did feel-a kiss of treachery, for I could still taste the other man in my mouth.