"Was it a voice? Or was it a thump? Something even more primitive than speech. A kind of pounding in my gut which I had nicknamed my 'hunger-thump'. It was as if my stomach thought of itself as a heart. And no matter how I filled it - with men, with books, with food, with gingerbread cookies shaped like men and poems shaped like men and men shaped like poems - it refused to be still. Unfillable - that's what I was. Nymphomania on the brain. Starvation of the heart."
"How can I know what I think unless I see what I write? My writing is the submarine or spaceship which takes me to the unknown worlds within my head. And the adventure is endless and inexhaustible. If I learn to build the right vehicle, then I can discover even more territories. And each new poem is a new vehicle, designed to delve a little deeper (or fly a little higher) than the one before."
"When a man says no, it's no. When a woman says no, it's yes, or at least maybe. There is even a joke to that effect. And little by little, women begin to believe in this view of themselves. Finally, after centuries of living under the shadow of assumptions, they no longer know what they want and can never make up their minds about anything. And men, of course, compound the problem by mocking them for their indecisiveness and blaming it on the biology, hormones, premenstrual tension."
"Write for your own eyes only. If you think about the public, any public, you're likely to be blocked."