Power, however it has evolved, whatever its origins, will not be given up without a struggle.

Women were the slave class that maintained the species in order to free the other half for the business of the world.

Romanticism is a cultural tool of male power to keep women from knowing their conditions.

Men are thinking, writing, and creating, because women were pouring their energy into those men; women are not creating culture because they are occupied with love.

Feminism, when it truly achieves its goals, will crack through the most basic structures of our society.

If women are differentiated only by superficial physical attributes, men appear more individual and irreplaceable than they really are.

He has let her in not because he genuinely loved her, but only because she played so well into his preconceived fantasies.

(Male) culture was (and is) parasitical, feeding on the emotional strength of women without reciprocity.

All men are selfish, brutal and inconsiderate--and I wish I could find one.

Thus her whole identity hangs in the balance of her love life. She is allowed to love herself only if a man finds her worthy of love.

[U]nless oppressed groups stick together, and on alliances of self interest rather than do-goodism; nothing can be accomplished in the long run to dismantle the apparatus of oppression.

Once Experienced, Industry is All Yours.

Don had made a fewer mistakes and learned from every one of them

I grew up in a neighborhood in Baltimore that was like a war zone, so I never learned to trust that there were people who could help me.

One mind awake can become stronger than a thousand zombies sleepwalking in a dying civilization.

You should laugh everywhere you can find even the slightest glimmer of humour.

Only a vision - that is what one must have.

We realize the importance of our voices only when we are silenced

I don't like writing as an expert. I like writing as an amateur. I like writing as an idiot. It's much more fun to start in ignorance.

In spite of the problems he was having he was going on with his life. There are thousands who don’t or won’t or can’t and plenty of them aren’t in prison either.

He leans over and takes her hand. With the other he touches her face. ‘You your best thing, Sethe. You are.’ His holding fingers are holding hers. ‘Me? Me?