“And the woman who could win the respect of man was often the woman who could knock him down with her bare fists and sit on him until he yelled for help.”

I believe only in money, not in love or tenderness. Love and tenderness meant only pain and suffering and defeat.

Always before I had felt like a person, an individual, hopeful that I could mold my life according to some desire of my own.

But settled things were enemies to me and soon lost their newness and color. The unknown called.

Like all my family and class, I considered it a sign of weakness to show affection; to have been caught kissing my mother would have been a disgrace, and to have shown affection for my father would have been a disaster.

So I had to be the doctor to these wounded men until we could remove them to the hospital.

My mother listened to all the news from the camp during the strike.

Much that we read of Russia is imagination and desire only.

Friendship is far more human.

Now, being a girl, I was ashamed of my body and my lack of strength. So I tried to be a man.

To die would have been beautiful. But I belong to those who do not die for the sake of beauty.

I would not let it ruin me as it ruined others! I would speak only with money, hard money.

She said little, especially when my father or the men who worked for him were about I remember her instinctive and unhesitating sympathy for the miners.

I have loved and bitterness left me for that hour. But there are times when love itself is bitter.

It was a technical Marxist subject and I did not understand it nor did I know what questions to ask.

In the little hall leading to it was a rack holding various Socialist or radical newspapers, tracts, and pamphlets in very small print and on very bad paper.

Subjection of any kind and in any place is beneath the dignity of man.

Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others’ bare.

I watch her blond head until it disappears around the bend, and I feel bare, like there’s nothing left to protect me against pain. Her absence stings worst of all.

The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved.

It is not a tool, although it can act like many tools. It is the first metamedium, and as such it has degrees of freedom for representation and expression never before encountered and as yet barely investigated.

What love lays bare in me is energy.

As if some dreadful fate would overcome us if we were to face the pure light of truth and lay bare our fearful clinging to illusion.

I wouldn’t have believed it. I still barely do, truthfully. I’m so continually fortunate that I keep coming across these smart, interesting, creative people who pick me. It’s just stupendous.

Opportunity lives at the intersection of what people need tomorrow and can be just barely built today.