Great minds may have cold hearts. Form but no color. It is an incompleteness. And so they are afraid of any woman who both thinks and feels deeply.

If you meet a woman of whatever complexion who sails her life with strength and grace and assurance, talk to her! And what you will find is that there has been a suffering, that at some time she has left herself for hanging dead.

She sat still, I thought, and yet she traveled. And when one stitches, the mind travels, not the way men do, with ax and oxen through the wilderness, but surely our traveling counted too, as motion. And I thought of the patience of the stitches. Writing a book, I thought, which men often do, but women only rarely, has the posture of sewing. One hand leads, and the other hand helps. And books, like quilts, are made, one word at a time, one stitch at a time.

Los buenos actos resuenan a nuestro paso, mucho tiempo después de que hayamos olvidado haberlos realizado.

I'm sorry to burden you,' she said. She felt like a crybaby.
'What can we do with our stories,' he said, 'but tell them?

Perhaps Vulnerability was a land that, for some people, could never be entirely traversed.