But to be furious, murderously furious, is to be alive. No longer young, no longer pretty, no longer loved, or sweet, or lovable, unmasked, writhing on the ground for all to see in my utter ingloriousness, there's no telling what I might do. I could film my anger and sell it, I could do some unmasking of my own, beat the fuckers at their own game, and on the way I could become the best-known fucking artist in America, out of sheer spite. You never know. I'm angry enough to set fire to a house just by looking at it. It can't be contained, stored away with the recycling. I'm done staying quietly upstairs. My anger is not a little person's, a sweet girl's, a dutiful daughter's. My anger is prodigious. My anger is a colossus. I'm angry enough to understand why Emily Dickinson shut out the world altogether, why Alice Neel betrayed her children, even though she loved them mightily. I'm angry enough to see why you walk into the water with rocks in your pockets, even though that's not the kind of angry I am. Virginia Woolf, in her rage, stopped being afraid of death; but I'm angry enough, at last, to stop being afraid of life, and angry enough--finally, God willing, with my mother's anger also on my shoulders, a great boil of rage like the sun's fire in me--before I die to fucking well live. Just watch me.