If you think you are emancipated, you might consider the idea of tasting your own menstrual blood – if it makes you sick, you’ve got a long way to go, baby.
Every time a woman makes herself laugh at her husband’s often-told jokes she betrays him. The man who looks at his woman and says ‘What would I do without you?’ is already destroyed.
We can’t change the moon but we can live in harmony with its tides, and we can make some ripples of our own.
If a woman never lets herself go, how will she ever know how far she might have got?
A garden is a kinetic work of art, not an object but a process, open-ended, biodegradable, nurturant, like all women’s artistry. A garden is the best alternative therapy.
If the present economic structure can change only by collapsing, then it had better collapse as soon as possible.
Bringing up children is not a real occupation, because children come up just the same, brought or not.
In a sane society no woman would be left to struggle on her own with the huge transformation that is motherhood, when a single individual finds herself joined by an invisible umbilical cord to another person from whom she will never be separated, even by death.
As Angelo discovered in Measure for Measure, nothing corrupts like virtue.
People who are really happy do not concern themselves with convincing others of the fact.
Mother is the dead heart of the family spending father’s earnings on consumer goods to enhance the environment in which he eats, sleeps, and watches the television.
The most popular image of the female despite the exigencies of the clothing trade is all boobs and buttocks, a hallucinating sequence of parabolae and bulges.
I think that testosterone is a rare poison.
Two-up is Australia’s very own way of parting a fool and his money.
The occupational hazard of being a Playboy Bunny is the aching facial muscles brought on by obligatory smiles.
Women are reputed never to be disgusted. The sad fact is that they often are, but not with men; following the lead of men, they are most often disgusted with themselves.
If female liberation is to happen, if the reservoir of real female love is to be tapped, this sterile self-deception must be counteracted. The only literary form which could outsell romantic trash on the female market is hard-core pornography.
Never advise anyone to go to war or to get married. Write down the advice of him who loves you, though you like it not at present. He that has no children brings them up well.
If the next time our governments propose to make war on a helpless civilian population we were to uncover our grief and guilt instead of our anger, how much difference might we make?
Guilt is one side of a nasty triangle; the other two are shame and stigma. This grim coalition combines to inculpate women themselves of the crimes committed against them.