If it weren’t for the unconventionality of my desires, my mind might never have been forced to reckon with my body.
My father once nearly came to blows with a female dinner guest about whether a particular patch of embroidery was fuchsia or magenta. But the infinite gradations of color in a fine sunset – from salmon to canary to midnight blue – left him wordless.
I don’t know, maybe it’s because I was raised Catholic. Confession has always held a great appeal for me.
I’m glad mainstream culture is starting to catch up to where lesbian-feminism was 30 years ago.
Grief takes many forms, including the absence of grief.
Was Daedalus really stricken with grief when Icarus fell into the sea? Or just disappointed by the design failure.
Although I am good at enumerating my father’s flaws, it’s hard for me to sustain much anger at him. I expect this is partly because he’s dead, and partly because the bar is lower for fathers than it is for mothers.
You can’t live and write at the same time.
It’s our very capacity for self-consciousness that makes us self-destructive!
If there was ever a bigger pansy than my father, it was Marcel Proust.
She has given me a way out.
What would happen if we spoke the truth?
Mostly it was Mad magazine. And I did read a lot of – I had a subscription when I was little, but I also had access to some old collections, the little paperbacks of the really good stuff.
I started to get bored with that stuff about only drawing men and I’ve taken it out of the slideshow.
I probably read Harriet the Spy about 70,000 times.
I never really read superhero stuff as a kid.
But I read comic books. I read things like Richie Rich and Little Lulu.
Partly I resented being perceived as weak because I was a girl.
Sometimes I wish the writing and drawing were more integrated.
When I was growing up in the 1960s, there was starting to be more books geared towards young adults.