I have an intense desire to return to the womb. Anybody's.
In modern Britain the most dangerous place to be is in your mother's womb. It should be a place of sanctity.
I live in a queendom, ruled by a womb-iverse.
The first thing the male establishment wants to control is uterus and birth. You might call it womb envy. But even worse is the fact we are still using the male model of sexual response for women.
Into this wild abyss, The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave.
A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.
I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
When we transcend our own thoughts, we get in touch with the womb of creation.
Just as you must come through a woman's womb to attain physical birth, so must you come through Wisdom to achieve mental birth. And like childbirth, Wisdom often comes with pain.
Destruction of the embryo in the mother's womb is a violation of the right to live which God has bestowed upon this nascent life.
I have an equal opportunity womb!
How many physicians, scientists, teachers, pastors, missionaries, statesmen, musicians, businessmen, and notable contributors to society have been murdered in the womb?
The connection we have is something special. We know each other since we were in the womb! You can't get any closer then that
The irony of primary parent laws is that on the one hand feminists were arguing for women's equal rights to jointly-created career assets that emanated from the male financial womb, but arguing against men's equal rights to jointly-created children that emanated from the woman's child-bearing womb.
I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
Equality. . . like freedom, exists only where you are now. Only as an egg in the womb are we all equal.
And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
Writers always say, 'I always knew I wanted to be a writer; when I was a three-month-old foetus a pen formed in my hand and I began to scratch my first story on the inside of my mother's womb. ' I started later, in my early twenties.
I'm one of those writers who can't talk about what they're working on. The entire four years I was writing 'House of Sand and Fog,' my wife never saw a word of it. I just have to keep it in the womb, and then everyone can have a crack at it.
It is God who gives life. Let us respect and love human life, especially vulnerable life in a mother's womb.