Everyday we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shots we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every woman, when she gets quiet, when she becomes desperately honest with herself, is capable of uttering profound truths.
We all derive from the same source.
There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all queens, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up to discover what is already there.
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