Literature, art, like civilization itself, are only accidents. - Joyce Carol Oates

I am the presence standing here at this juncture of Time & Space- who else?

The theme of invisibility has haunted me for many years, since earliest girlhood. A woman often feels ‘invisible’ in a public sense precisely because her physical being - her ‘visibility’ - figures so prominently in her identity. She is judged as a body, she is ‘attractive’ or ‘unattractive’, while knowing that her deepest self is inward, and secret: knowing, hoping that her spiritual essence is a great deal more complex than the casual eye of the observer will allow… it might be argued that all persons, defined to themselves rather more as what they think and dream than what they do, are ‘invisible’.

And the thought consoled me, as it does now: everything you believe you have imagined is real. You have only to outlive it.