"I understood that I was inventing myself, and that I was doing this more in the way of a painter than in the way of a scientist. I could not count on precision or calculation; I could only count on intuition. I did not have anything exactly in mind, but when the picture was complete I would know. I did not have position, I did not have money at my disposal. I had memory, I had anger, I had despair."
- From Lucy, by Jamaica Kincaid
Genetrix, female parents, materfamilias, laying hens, matriarchs, matrons, the hand that rocks the cradle, mom, mommy, ma, mam, mum, mummy, mama, you and she and me, measured by maternal affection, nurturing instinct, love for children, and quality of mercy.
The ones who give birth, spawn, bear, beget, procreate, engender, originate, bring forth, produce, author, design and mastermind. Mine never sheltered me, or loved me, or kept me in tow. Still she gave me a plot, a plan of action, and a mind of my own.
I hate mother’s day.
That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.
—― Edna O’Brien, Country Girl
As necklace she wore a garland of human heads; her kilt was a girdle of human arms; her long tongue was out to lick blood. She was Cosmic Power, the totality of the universe, the harmonization of all pairs of opposites, combining wonderfully the terror of absolute destruction with an impersonal yet motherly assurance. As change, the river of time, the fluidity of life, the goddess at once creates, preserves and destroys. Her name is Kali, the Black One, her title: The Ferry across the Ocean of Existence.
The Hero with a Thousand Faces
You have to have courage to stir up a brainstorm: you never know what may come to frighten us. The sacred monster died: in its place a solitary girl was born. I understand, of course, that I will have to stop, not for lack of words, but because such things, and above all things I’ve only thought and not written down, usually don’t make it into print.
The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss - an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife - is sure to be noticed.
— Soren Kierkegaard
There either is or is not, that’s the way things are. The colour of the day. The way it felt to be a child. The saltwater on your sunburnt legs. Sometimes the water is yellow, sometimes it’s red. But what colour it may be in memory, depends on the day. I’m not going to tell you the story the way it happened. I’m going to tell it the way I remember it.
—― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations