Every Time I Deny Myself I Commit

In One Sense I Feel That My Book Is A One-woman Argument Against Determinism.

To Make Love Is To Become Like This Infant Again. We Grope With Our Mouths Toward The Body Of Another Being, Whom We Trust, Who Takes Us In Her Arms. We Rock Together With This Loved One. We Move Beyond Speech. Our Bodies Move Past All The Controls We Have Learned. We Cry Out In Ecstasy, In Feeling. We Are Back In A Natural World Before Culture Tried To Erase Our Experience Of Nature. In This World, To Touch Another Is To Express Love; There Is No Idea Apart From Feeling, And No Feeling Which Does Not Ring Through Our Bodies And Our Souls At Once.

I Am Not So Different In My History Of Abandonment From Anyone Else After All. We Have All Been Split Away From The Earth, Each Other, Ourselves.

There Is Always A Time To Make Right What Is Wrong.

Poetry Is A Good Medium For Revolutionary Hope.