Quotes by Women Authors

The last cobwebs
of fog in the
black firtrees are flakes
of white ash in the world's hearth.

Denise Levertov

There is a special blessing in old clothes, and that aside from their comfort, for which especially they are to be cherished. They confer a kind of anonymity on one who wears them gladly; all their bright places rubbed to a uniform dullness, they achieve an appearance so nearly nondescript that only a close scrutiny could learn that ever they held shape at all.

Like I'm dragging bundles of old clothes? I'm carrying artifacts that breathe fire. I'm talking about a language of smoke. These are three-dimensional creatures that can mate. I'd no more leave them go by the side of the trail than I would my child. I'll carry them until someone amputates my arms.

I have often thought I would have been quite happy as a spider.
Even a spider has the right to a mate.

We only have one life to live, and must go on with it to the end, that if we feel it is meaningless, then we ourselves must give it meaning.

The great advantage of telling the truth is that one is so much more likely to sound convincing

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of exiles.

Then I wondered if that's all God ever is—somebody who loves you enough to come back from the dead to visit every now and again. Or if that's all that other people ever are—different faces of God walking around.

You'll get through this. And I know it's impossible to believe right now, but it gets better. Trust me.

Susane Colasanti

Children live in a way that is very generous. They learn from a young age what you value; they watch your every move. If you value writing, they will learn quickly to value it too, as something they can give to someone, or receive with pleasure from someone else.

For just once in my life, I'd like to get through a whole week without having to deal with some fool, white or black, who's got an attitude about the way I look.

One of the most popular narcotics to ease the pain of economy is cherishing the belief that better days are ahead. This is both efficacious and commendable, but it sometimes turns out to be a habit-forming drug.... Things to which you look forward too long are almost invariably disappointing when you get them, and you might die first anyway.

Marjorie Hillis

Suspense is torture... but delightful--or there'd be no gambling in the world.

Darlings of the forest! Blossoming alone When Earth's grief is sorest For her jewels gone - Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown.

Rose Terry Cooke

People do pretty ugly things to make themselves feel better, this I do know.

Mariah Fredericks

People always grumbled. If things went well they wanted them to go better. Give them comfort and they wanted luxuries.

Eleanor Hibbert

Every generation proclaims that each must lead his own life, but seldom grants the subsequent generation the right to lead theirs.

But coming to terms with one's sorrow is one thing; sharing it with strangers is quite another.

The trouble with Ian [Fleming] is that he gets off with women because he can't get on with them.

Rosamond Lehmann

Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm, Have pow'r, or will, to work us harm; For those who dare the truth to tell, Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well.

Maria Edgeworth

Woman, a pleasing but a short-lived flower,
Too soft for business and too weak for power:
A wife in bondage, or neglected maid:
Despised, if ugly; if she's fair, betrayed.

Rule number one: Why is it that the one time a cute guy talks to you, you have a friend who's in crisis?

Candace Bushnell

One can write out of love or hate. Hate tells one a great deal about a person. Love makes one become the person. Love, contrary to legend, is not half as blind, at least for writing purposes, as hate. Love can see the evil and not cease to be love. Hate cannot see the good and remain hate. The writer, writing out of hatred, will, thus, paint a far more partial picture than if he had written out of love.

She took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment. A raindrop moved slowly down her neck; he watched as it turned down the slope of her breast to disappear inside the collar of her shirt. He was seriously contemplating becoming jealous of a droplet of water. Yorkshire was obviously damaging to his sanity.

When we fill our thoughts with right things, the wrong ones have no room to enter