"I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads."

"But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red, and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of strong, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag, On the ground before you is the jumble it held--so much like the jumble in the bags, could they be emptied, that all might be dumped in a single heap and the basgs refilled without altering the content greatly. A bit ot colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps this is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place--who knows?"

-Zora Neale Hurston, How It Feels to Be Colored Me