I Don't Really Believe In

I Don't Really Believe In Stories, Only In The People Who Tell Them.

Hope Is Like One Of Those Orchids That Grows Around Toxic Waste: Lovely In Itself - And An Assertion, If You Like, Of Indefatigable Good - But A Sure Sign That Something Nasty Lies Underneath.

The Woman Who Thinks She Can Choose Femininity, Can Toy With It Like The Social Drinker Toys With Wine - Well, She's Asking For It, Asking To Be Undone, Devoured, Asking To Spend Her Life Perpetrating A New Fraud, Manufacturing A New Fake Identity, Only This Time It's Her Equality That's Fake.

People Are Least Aware Of Others When Demonstrating Their Own Power Over Them.

The Reaction To 'aftermath' Has Been Far Worse Than To 'a Life's Work,' Yet I Find I'm Perhaps A Little Less Touched By It. In Both Cases, I've Coped Artistically By Believing The Criticisms Weren't Right. They Upset Me, But They Didn't Challenge My Understanding Of How To Write, Nor Of How Morality Functions In Literature.