Quote

We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

Marge Piercy

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Marge Piercy
Age: 88
Born: 1936
Born: March 31
Activist
Climate Activist
Feminist
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Detroit
Michigan
Eye
Fingers
Body
Pass
Like
Arms
Erotic
World
Color
Colors
Fire
Strings
Open
Shut
Eyes
Sexy
Lying
Bodies

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Doorways are sacred to women for we are the doorways of life and we must choose what comes in and what goes out.
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We live in a media soup and are constantly being programmed or are fighting that programming. Thus any truthful account of a life, every part of a life, is about society as well as an individual.
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What a richly colored strong warm coat is woven when love is the warp and work is the woof.
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The work of the world is common as mud.
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We admire predators - panthers, lions, tigers, even wolves. Maybe to be naturally thoughtful and hesitant to use violence is to be somehow second rate. To be in the middle of the social food chain. Especially if you're a man. This society thinks real men are violent.
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Art is a game only if you playat it, a mirror that reflects from the inside out.
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Writing is a futile attempt to preserve what disappears moment by moment.
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The incidence of violent brand-loyalty to one's own current dogma has risen.
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The powerful don't make revolutions
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Suppose that a person writes what she must. That is only the first step of becoming a writer. The work must survive the moment of creation. It must get out to an audience. She or he must dare to show the work. She must risk ridicule, misunderstanding, scandal, condemnation, & what's often worse, none of the above: silence. No attention at all.
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I am my mother's daughter,... I am her only novel.
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The real writer is one who really writes.
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Looking at my life was very difficult. I think I learned that I haven't been as good a person as I'm inclined to think of myself as. I haven't been as good friend, haven't been as good a person, made a lot of mistakes.
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A strong woman is a woman at work, cleaning out the cesspool of the ages, and while she shovels, she talks about how she doesn't mind crying, it opens the ducts of the eyes, and throwing up develops the stomach muscles, and she goes on shoveling with tears in her nose.
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The politics of the exile are fever, revenge, daydream, theater of the aging convalescent. You wait in the wings and rehearse. You wait and wait.
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Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.
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Every artist creates with open eyes what she sees in her dream.
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Where I came from, the nights I had wandered and survived scared them, and where I would go they never imagined.
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A new idea is rarely born like Venus attended by graces. More commonly it's modeled of baling wire and acne. More commonly it wheezes and tips over.
Marge Piercy
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I said, I like my life. If Ihave to give it back, if theytake it from me, let me onlynot feel I wasted any, let menot feel I forgot to love anyoneI meant to love, that I forgotto give what I held in my hands,that I forgot to do some littlepiece of the work that wantedto come through.
Marge Piercy