Better a thousand times even a swiftly fading, ephemeral moment of life than the epoch-long unconsciousness of the stone.

According to Audre Lorde in all of us, whether we are parents or not, there is a black op mother. Men also carry a quality that, although too often prefer not to reach for it. Black mother at Lord's metaphor of the voice of intuition, creativity and passion unencumbered by anything. The white fathers told us: I think, then I exist and Black mother within each of us - the poet - whispers in our dreams: I feel so I can be free.

Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

Say that she rail, why then I'll tell her plain she sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word, then I'll commend her volubility and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

Say that upon the altar of her beauty you sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: write till your ink be dry and with your tears moist it again, and frame some feeling line, that may discover such integrity.

Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders, where it is. Titus Andronicus (Marcus at II, iv)

I look at the Augusteum, and I think that perhaps my life has not actually been so chaotic, after all. It is merely this world that is chaotic, bringing changes to us all that nobody could have anticipated. The Augusteum warns me to not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to, or what function I may once have intended to serve. Yesterday I might have been a glorious monument to somebody, true enough--but tomorrow I could be a fireworks depository. Even in the Eternal City, says the silent Augusteum, one must always be prepared for riotous and endless waves of transformation.

I wonder if I am capable of being somebody’s sun, somebody’s everything. Am I centered enough now to be the center of somebody else’s life?

Let your conscience be your guide.

So when modern-day religious conservatives wax nostalgic about how marriage is a sacred tradition that reaches back into history for thousands of uninterrupted years, they are correct, but in only one respect - only if they happen to be talking about Judaism. Christianity simply does not share that deep and consistent historical reverence toward matrimony. Lately it has, yes- but not originally. For the first thousand or so years of Christian history, the church regarded monogamous marriage as marginally less wicked that flat-out whoring but only very marginally.

Like their personal lives, women's history is fragmented, interrupted; a shadow history of human beings whose existence has been shaped by the efforts and the demands of others.

A great acacia, with its slender trunk and overpoise of multitudinous leaves. (In which a hundred fields might spill their dew and intense verdure, yet find room enough) stood reconciling all the place with green.

Out of my discomforts, which were small enough, grew one thing for which I have all my life been grateful, the formation of fixed habits of work.

Misfortune, and recited misfortune especially, can be prolonged to the point where it ceases to excite pity and arouses only irritation.

The House Beautiful is, for me, the play lousy.

When I was young and bold and strong, the right was right, the wrong was wrong. With plume on high and flag unfurled, I rode away to right the world. But now I’m old - and good and bad, are woven in a crazy plaid. I sit and say the world is so, and wise is s/he who lets it go.

Painting is nature seen through a temperament.

The dearest ones of time, the strongest friends of the soul--BOOKS.

He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.

Only two pointed arrows betrayal of violence is similar to injure users of worse enemies.