I'll never understand the kind of writer who genuinely advances the proposition that life is a dream or a fiction. To me that's the voice of privileg… - Joanna Russ

My mother's country: the body and garden of the Great Goddess, fair, ornamental, tended; I can wander forever in Her lap under the sun of Her face, in a cultivated place like the Botanical Gardens of my childhood where everything is suffused with the divine personality, regal, wide, and lovely. Everything's here-pineapples from Java, Norway pine, greenhouses like tropical igloos, the long wide lawns, camomile meadows veiled with hair, lawns that look like-and are-the dancing-grounds of angels.
The fatherland is another place.

Sit a man on his ass with nothing to do but eat and the first thing that goes is his mind. It never fails.

Minority art, vernacular art, is marginal art. Only on the margins does growth occur.