I keep going over a sentence. I nag it, gnaw it, pat and flatter it.
By jove, no wonder women don't love war nor understand it, nor can operate in it as a rule; it takes a man to suffer what other men have invented . . .
She was built for crowds. She has never come any closer to life than the dinner table.
I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks.
Genius is immediate, but talent takes time.
The older women were Sunbeams and I guess we were Cherubs or Lambs, but our mothers were Nightingales.
Isadore [Duncan], who had an un-American genius for art, for organizing love, maternity, politics and pedagogy on a great personal scale, had also an un-American genius for grandeur.
The German passion for bureaucracy -- for written and signal forms . . . to move about, to work, to exist -- is like a steel pin pinning each French individual to a sheet of paper, the way an entomologist pins each specimen insect . . .
Women have invented nothing in all that, except the men who were born as male babies and grew up to be men big enough to be killed fighting.
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