“She preferred the quiet solitary atmosphere, to create in her own world of paint and colour, the thrill of anticipating how her works would turn out as she eyed the blank sheets of paper or canvas before starting her next masterpiece. How satisfying it was to mess around in paint gear, without having to worry about spills, starch or frills, that was the life!”

“Why not paint your own sky,and not leave it to others to add colour to your canvas?Why not take the brush,Point it at the canvas,and create your own Masterpiece.”

“She turned her painted blue eyes toward the assistant and said something in French before she left.”

“She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.”

“She cannot remember her mother's face... This is the woman who brought her into the world... This is the woman her father loved. Yet every time she turns her mind's eye in her mother's direction she sees only the men she is talking to, the children she is playing with, the maids to whom she is giving orders... She begins to realise how alike they are, she and her mother, these blank sheets on which men have written their stories, the white space between the words, making all their achievements possible and contributing nothing to the meaning.”

“The bloody red head emerged.The white sheet turned crimson.The infant sat up.Unfurling soft, white feathered wings, the newborn demigoddess regarded the world around her with large, beguiling blue eyes. As if satisfied with what she saw, she seized her own umbilical cord between her small, sharp teeth and severed her tie with her mother with one, quick bite.”