I married beneath me, all women do.
We’ve heard a lot in recent polemic about how to win the fight for the corner office. But pushing up against a glass ceiling is practically a luxury when you consider the millions of women who can feel the floor dropping beneath their feet.
Beneath the Sugar Sky’ is an homage to the portal fantasies of my childhood: it is the portal running in reverse.
When I would visit my octopus friend, Octavia, at New England aquarium, usually she would look me in the face, flow right over to see me, and flush red with emotion when she took my arms in hers. Often when I’d stroke her she’d turn white beneath my touch, the colour of a relaxed octopus.
I demand that my books be judged with utmost severity, by knowledgeable people who know the rules of grammar and of logic, and who will seek beneath the footsteps of my commas the lice of my thought in the head of my style.
The bosom can ache beneath diamond brooches; and many a blithe heart dances under coarse wool.
About half of all potential future global warming emissions from United States fossil fuels lie in oil, gas and coal buried beneath our public lands, controlled by the federal government and owned by the American people – and not yet leased to private industry for fuel extraction.
There was a lake beneath me, but the big, heavy parachute which had to be opened two miles above the ground couldn’t be steered. My first thought was, ‘Lord, they send just one woman into space, and she has to end up in the water.’
Politically, Obama’s amazing streak of self-destructing opponents who have lain beneath his feet during his unlikely political career appears to be holding.
