Will Grace
Will Grace
dream honey know-yourself
Well, by now you must know yourself, honey, whatever you do, life don't stop. It only sits a minute and dreams a dream.
mean pie poison
Most of the Womens Libbers I knew really didnt want to have a piece of the mens pie. They thought that pie was kind of poisonous, toxic, really full of weapons, poison gases, all kinds of mean junk we didnt even want a slice of.
baby children crazy
A lot of sad things have happened to my friends' children, people you knew as babies. They've been killed or become crazy or all kinds of tragic things. There are some people whose children haven't talked to them in fifteen years. There's all kind of meshugaas in this world.
long rewards life-is
In the end, long life is the reward, strength, and beauty.
able
You come to doing what you do by not being able to do something.
men feet games
What we owe men is some freedom from their part in a murderous game in which they kick each other to death with one foot, bracing themselves on our various comfortable places with the other.
reading literature university
I do lots of reading and speaking at many universities about literature and also about politics, which is as much a part of my life as the literature.
writing past fiction
I didn't write any fiction until I was past thirty.
writing vocabulary useless
My vocabulary is adequate for writing notes and keeping journals but absolutely useless for an active moral life.
blood people stories
There isn't a story written that isn't about blood and money. People and their relationship to each other is the blood, the family. And how they live, the money of it.
saws stories obligation
As an older person, I do feel an obligation to tell the story about what was really happening in the fifties, sixties, and seventies, as I saw it.
writing justice possibility
I write for the still, small possibility of justice.
summer spring heart
This hill crossed with broken pines and maples lumpy with the burial mounds of uprooted hemlocks (hurricane of '38) out of their rotting hearts generations rise trying once more to become the forest just beyond them tall enough to be called trees in their youth like aspen a bouquet of young beech is gathered they still wear last summer's leaves the lightest brown almost translucent how their stubbornness has decorated the winter woods.
summer running sweet
Here I am in the garden laughing an old woman with heavy breasts and a nicely mapped face how did this happen well that's who I wanted to be at last a woman in the old style sitting stout thighs apart under a big skirt grandchild sliding on off my lap a pleasant summer perspiration that's my old man across the yard he's talking to the meter reader he's telling him the world's sad story how electricity is oil or uranium and so forth I tell my grandson run over to your grandpa ask him to sit beside me for a minute I am suddenly exhausted by my desire to kiss his sweet explaining lips.