Birth (n.) is a leap into the unknown head first, just as death is a leap into the unknown feet first.
Birth (n.) is but a sleep and a forgetting.
Birth (n.) is the sudden opening of a window through which you look out upon stupendous prospect ...
Birth (n.) is the messenger of death.
Childbirth (n.) is exquisite. Pain and joy are one at this moment. Ever after, the dim recollection is so sweet that we speak to our children with a gratitude they never understand. We speak to our parents with a sorrow unfamiliar until the day they are dying.
Childbirth (n.) is exquisite. Pain and joy are one at this moment. Ever after, the dim recollection is so sweet that we speak to our children with a gratitude they never understand. We speak to our parents with a sorrow unfamiliar until the day they are dying.
Childbirth (n.) is the most profound initiation to spirituality a woman can have.
Childbirth (n.) is fundamentally a spiritual, as well as a physical, achievement. The birth of a child is the ultimate perfection of human love.
Creation (n.) is at once a great suffering and the great redemption from suffering.
Creation (n.) of a world is boring — condoned only on account of a little joke.
Creation (n.) is a hammer driven toward the stone: an image sleeps in the hardest, ugliest stone, and the shards fly.
Creation (n.) in art always raises the question: is it hunger or superabundance that has here become creative?
Dawn (n.) is the beginning of a daily instalment in a serial story that will never end.
Dawn (n.) is a colorless clashing of night and day which crumbles the sky’s pearl-gray vault into dust.
Dawn (n.) is, for the conquered, a betrayer; a new sun rising as if an ally of your enemies to assist in your destruction.
Dawn (n.) is that single hour of the twenty-four when crime ceases, debauchery is exhausted, and even desolation finds a shelter.