Ann Goldstein

The background had been made from an immense sheet of royal-blue cardboard sprinkled with perhaps two hundred stars cut out of silver and gold paper, and attached with glue.

So it was probably the experience of the diary and its contradictions that transformed me into a fiction writer. In the invented stories, I felt that I was—I and my truths—a little safer

Beliefs aren’t good or bad; they serve only to bring order, at least momentarily, to our anguish

Poor or affluent, ignorant or educated, beautiful or ugly, famous or unknown, married or single, working or unemployed, with children or without, rebellious or obedient, we are all deeply marked by a way of being in the world that, even when we claim it as ours, is poisoned at the root by millennia of male domination.

The “too” of a woman produces violent male reactions and, in addition, the enmity of other women, who every day are obliged to fight among themselves for the crumbs left by men. The “too” of men produces general admiration and positions of power.

Even today, after a century of feminism, we can’t fully be ourselves, don’t belong to ourselves.

I love young people who fight to give their time a new form and demand a better life for the entire human race.

I would like it if, on the entire planet, there were no longer any reason to shout, especially with pain. I like low tones, polite enthusiasm, courteous complaints.

Ever since adolescence, I’ve liked the term “unknown.”

I’m not interested in writing something new. I’m interested in the ordinary or, rather, what we have forced inside the uniform of the ordinary. I’m interested in digging into that and causing confusion, pushing myself to go beyond appearances.