The revolutionary woman knows the world she seeks to overthrow is precisely one in which love between equal human beings is well nigh impossible. We are still part of the ironical working-out of this, our own cruel contradiction. One of the most compelling facts which can unite women and make us act is the overwhelming indignity or bitter hurt of being regarded as simply __he other_, __n object_, __ommodity_, __hing_. We act directly from a consciousness of the impossibility of loving or being loved without distortion. But we must still demand now the preconditions of what is impossible at the moment. It is a most disturbing dialectic, our praxis of pain.

Be the celebrators, celebrate! Already there is too much__he flowers have bloomed, the birds are singing, the sun is there in the sky__elebrate it! You are breathing and you are alive and you have consciousness, celebrate it!

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

I try not to react, but I must fail because Gabriel turns to look at me. __he world needs both butterflies and lions. One is not better than the other. They're both beautiful and brave in their own ways.__is hand covers mine as it fiddles with the blades of grass. __va._ I look up. __ do not wish you were a lion any more than I would have wished her to be a butterfly.

I'm a poet who has lost his words." He looks across the street, but not before I catch the dull glint of shame in his eyes."Where did you lose them?" I ask, gentling my tone.He turns back to me. When he speaks, his voice is so small that I have to lean closer to hear it. "The same place I lost myself.

A truly happy woman drives some men and almost every other woman absolutely crazy