Not Everybody Feels Religion The

It Is Distraction, Not Meditation, That Becomes Habitual; Interruption, Not Continuity; Spasmodic, Not Constant Toil.

The Clock Talked Loud. I Threw It Away, It Scared Me What It Talked.

She Would Not Exchange Her Solitude For Anything. Never Again To Be Forced To Move To The Rhythms Of Others.

Literary History And The Present Are Dark With Silences . . . I Have Had Special Need To Learn All I Could Of This Over The Years, Myself So Nearly Remaining Mute And Having To Let Writing Die Over And Over Again In Me. These Are Not Natural Silences--what Keats Called Agonie Ennuyeuse (the Tedious Agony)--that Necessary Time For Renewal, Lying Fallow, Gestation, In The Natural Cycle Of Creation. The Silences I Speak Of Here Are Unnatural: The Unnatural Thwarting Of What Struggles To Come Into Being, But Cannot.

Compared To Men Writers Of Like Distinction And Years Of Life, Few Women Writers Have Had Lives Of Unbroken Productivity, Or Leave Behind A 'body Of Work.' Early Beginnings, Then Silence; Or Clogged Late Ones (foreground Silences); Long Periods Between Books (hidden Silences); Characterize Most Of Us.