Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
I'd call it love if love didn't take so many years but lust too is a jewel.
If we had time and no money, living by our wits, what story would you tell?
Art, whose honesty must work through artifice, cannot avoid cheating truth.
In America we have only the present tense. I am in danger. You are in danger.
I choose to love this time for once with all my intelligence -from "Splittings
Not biology, but ignorance of ourselves, has been the key to our powerlessness
The mind's passion is all for singling out. Obscurity has another tale to tell.
The liar often suffers from amnesia. Amnesia is the silence of the unconscious.
Weather abroad and weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction.
The moment when a feeling enters the body/ is political. This touch is political
Until we know the assumptions in which we are drenched, we cannot know ourselves.
These scars bear witness but whether to repair or to destruction I no longer know.
In a world where language and naming are power, silence is oppression, is violence.
How we dwelt in two worlds the daughters and the mothers in the kingdom of the sons.
False history gets made all day, any day, the truth of the new is never on the news.
When one woman tells her truth, it makes a space for other women to tell their truths.
No woman is really an insider in the institutions fathered by masculine consciousness.
When a woman tells the truth she is creating the possibility for more truth around her.
A life I didn't choose chose me: even my tools are the wrong ones for what I have to do.
I keep coming back to you in my head, but you couldn't know that, and I have no carbons.
There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.
Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage.
As a very young poet, I had been brought up on that dogma that politics was bad for poetry.
A patriot is one who wrestles for the soul of her country as she wrestles for her own being.
The suppressed lesbian I had been carrying in me since adolescence began to stretch her limbs.
Go back so far there is another language go back far enough the language is no longer personal.
Poetry can open locked chambers of possibiity, restore numbed zones to feeling, recharge desire.
I've had to guess at her, sewing her skin together as I sew mine, though with a different stitch
It will take all your heart, it will take all your breath It will be short, it will not be simple
The unconscious wants truth. It ceases to speak to those who want something else more than truth.
Abortion is violence; a deep, desperate violence inflicted by a woman upon, first of all, herself.
But before we were mothers, we have been, first of all, women, with actual bodies and actual minds.
Most women have not even been able to touch this anger, except to drive it inward like a rusted nail.
We move but our words stand become responsible for more than we intended and this is verbal privilege
Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false namings of real events.
It is the lesbian in us who is creative, for the dutiful daughter of the fathers in us is only a hack.
Lies are usually attempts to make everything simpler - for the liar - than it really is, or ought to be.
Courage is not defined by those who fought and did not fall, but by those who fought, fell and rose again.
A president cannot meaningfully honor certain token artists while the people at large are so dishonored.'”
There is no 'the truth,' 'a truth'--truth is not one thing, or even a system. It is an increasing complexity.
The serious revolutionary, like the serious artist, can't afford to lead a sentimental or self-deceiving life.
Despair, when not the response to absolute physical and moral defeat is, like war, the failure of imagination.
Grief held back from the lips wears at the heart; the drop that refused to join the river dried up in the dust.
A decade of cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing old scars ripped open over and over and still it is not enough.
The words are purposes./The words are maps./I came to see the damage that was done/and the treasures that prevail.
It's as if, in the mother's eyes, her smile, her stroking touch, the child first reads the message:'You are there!'
I think poets should work in the non-literary, non-academic world, get to know more than a workshop or a university.
We are, none of us, 'either' mothers or daughters; to our amazement, confusion, and greater complexity, we are both.
It's exhilarating to be alive in a time of awakening consciousness; it can also be confusing, disorienting, and painful.
If I cling to circumstances I could feel not responsible. Only she who says she did not choose, is the loser in the end.