I hate female men.

There’s something dreadfully decisive about a beheading.

Yet it is awful to love a person who is a torture to you. And a fascinating person who loves you and won’t hear of anything but your loving him and living right by his side through all eternity!

I have no country... my countrymen are the men and women who work against oppression- it does not matter where they are. With them I feel at home- we understand each other. Others are foreign to me.” -Agnes Smedley in Daughter of Earth.

More and more do I see that only a successful revolution in India can break England’s back forever and free Europe itself. It is not a national question concerning India any longer; it is purely international.

No one yet knows what a man’s province is, and how far that province, as conceived of today, is artificial.

I have written for years of the Red Army, yet my first living contact with it was with these peasants. They did not understand me.

Now and then some Party member would announce a study circle, and I would join it, along with some ten or twelve working men and women.

I have lived in the homes of workers; they live on boiled potatoes, black bread with lard spread on it instead of butter, and rotten beer.

I have loved and bitterness left me for that hour. But there are times when love itself is bitter.