It was supposed to say "Great Artist" on my tombstone, but if I died right now it would say "such a good teacher/daughter/friend" instead; and what I really want to shout, and want in big letters on that grave, too, is FUCK YOU ALL.

Women's anger is very scary to people, and to no one more than to other women, who think, 'My goodness, if I let the lid off, where would we be?'

Darling, when things go wrong in life, you lift your chin, put on a ravishing smile, mix yourself a little cocktail...

Today I plan to smile a lot, only so people who know me will be freaked the fuck out.

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust?

I’m a bit of an expert on anger, having suffered from it all through my youth, when I was both brunt and font. It’s certainly the most miserable state to be in but it’s also tremendously gratifying, really—rage feels justified. And it’s an excellent substitute for action. Why would you want to sacrifice rage to go about the long, difficult, dreary business of making something more tolerable?