To the contrary, I think we bent over backwards to press for elections and for democratic reform.
Betsy returned to her chair, took off her coat and hat, opened her book and forgot the world again.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
She tried to act as though it were nothing to go to the library alone. But her happiness betrayed her. Her smile could not be restrained, and it spread from her tightly pressed mouth, to her round cheeks, almost to the hair ribbons tied in perky bows over her ears.
You might as well learn right now, you two, that the poorest guide you can have in life is what people will say.
People were always saying to Margaret, 'Well, Julia sings and Betsy writes. Now what is little Margaret going to do?' Margaret would smile politely, for she was very polite, but privately she stormed to Betsy with flashing eyes, 'I'm not going to do anything. I want to just live. Can't people just live?
Isn't it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.
I sort of gave up on this whole human adventure a long time ago, divorced myself from it emotionally. It gives me an artistic detachment that I find valuable. I think the human race has squandered its gift, and I think this country has squandered its promise, for the sake of cell phones and Jet Skis.
Conflict is the soul of literature.
Be yourself, don't take anything from anyone, and never let them take you alive.
What the psychedelic thing can be seen as, when it's done with plants, as a return to Gaia, an immersion in the feminine.