“Organize, agitate, educate, must be our war cry.”

Inconsistency is the jewel of the American people.

It is poor rule that won’t work more ways than one.

There shall never be another season of silence until women have the same rights men have on this green earth.

When I was young, if a girl married poverty, she bcame a drudge; if she married wealth, she became a doll.

When woman has a newspaper which fear and favor cannot touch, then it will be that she can freely write her own thoughts.

For every betrayed woman, there is always the betrayer, man.

If a man’s public record be a clear one, if he has kept his pledges before the world, I do not inquire what his private life may have been.

White men have always controlled their wives’ wages.

No self-respecting woman should wish or work for the success of a party who ignores her sex.

The principle of self-government cannot be violated with impunity. The individual’s right to it is sacred – regardless of class, caste, race, color, sex or any other accident or incident of birth.

I think bicycle has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance.

Marriage, to women as to men, must be a luxury, not a necessity; an incident of life, not all of it.

Not one of our national officers ever has had a dollar of salary. I retire on full pay!

Sentiment never was and never can be a guarantee for justice.

We need a daily paper edited and composed according to woman’s own thoughts, and not as woman thinks a man wants her to think and write.

Independent bread alone can redeem woman from her curse of subjection to man.

Crying so hard, I can’t hardly breathe.

Every cloud has a silver lining. But an irony resides, as the cloud grows & cries. Turns white into grey and let’s go off the things, It can’t hold for life.

I cried so much that my tears, made up a sea, I survived sailing in that teary sea, to reach the shore, which, at first, didn’t have a door for me!

Trees have heard the echoes mountains have cried in despair all alone.

How we yell is because of them how we cry is because of them but how we love is because of us.

Be careful, her hell is lovely, dark, and deep until she weeps.

What if my ink runs dry or I have no words to sum up the tears I cry how do I write about nothing?

With all your words of glass, I felt the wedding dress rip If I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing me cry why should I want to give you the rest of my life?