Power is an inferiority complex wound up like a clock by an inability to relax. At the height of my power I have to be taken to a power source in the woods where I am recharged. This power source is not actually in the woods: it's in my mother. It hums quietly in her heart like an atomic plant and the place to plug in is her eyes.
-- Andrei Codrescu, "Power," 1973, collected in Great American Prose Poems, ed. David Lehman, p. 186.
