Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still
I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
Everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.
I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful.
Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?
I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.
The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.
There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
Winter dawn is the color of metal, The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
I had decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover.
And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.
The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.
Opinions are like orgasms...mine matters most and I really don't care if you have one.
My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.
I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have.
I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.
I don't believe that the meek will inherit the earth; The meek get ignored and trampled.
Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?
Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.