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I wasn't afraid of being poor I rather took it for granted. I was good at getting by with very little. I couldn't imagine sacrificing my writing to anything else.

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
Littles
Afraid
Anything
Took
Little
Wasn
Writing
Imagine
Good
Getting
Sacrificing
Poor
Granted
Rather
Sacrifice
Else
Couldn

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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.
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I am a driven writer. I feel guilty if I don't write, not self-indulgent if I do.
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Shared laughter is erotic too.
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Life is the first gift, love is the second, and understanding the third.
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The people I love the best, jump into work head first without dallying in the shallows.
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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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This life is a war we are not yet winning for our daughters' children. Don't do your enemies' work for them. Finish your own.
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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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Sleeping together is a euphemism for people, but tantamount to marriage with cats.
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I don't find that writing about parts of my life had much effect except in some cases to improve my memory. To get into parts of the past I want to recall very vividly, I use a form of directed meditation.
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Suspense is one of the ways you persuade a reader to become engaged and stay engaged with your work.
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When she kissed him, he melted like a lump of milk chocolate.
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Too much self-regard has never struck me as dignified: trying to twist over my shoulder to view my own behind.
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The price of seeing is silence.
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Obviously I find women more interesting than men to write about.
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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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The work of the world is common as mud.
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The anger of the weak never goes away, Professor, it just gets a little moldy. It molds like a beautiful blue cheese in the dark, growing stronger, and more interesting. The poor and the weak die with all their anger intact and probably those angers go on growing in the dark of the grave like the hair and the nails.
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Your anger was a climate I inhabited like a desert in a dry frigid weather of high thin air and ivory sun, sand dunes the wind lifted into stinging clouds that blinded and choked me where the only ice was in the blood.
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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.
Marge Piercy