May I never, I say, become that abnormal, merciless animal, that deformed monstrosity – a virtuous woman.
One’s thoughts are one’s most crucial adventures. Seriously and strongly and intently to contemplate doing murder is everyway more exciting, more romantic, more profoundly tragic than the murder done.
I am lithe, but fragile from constant involuntary self-analysis.
I am a selfish, conceited, impudent little animal, it is true, but, after all, I am only one grand conglomeration of Wanting…
It is of the dubious inevitable side of human nature—like gold teeth and tinned salmon and bastard lacy valentines
Surely there must be in a world of manifold beautiful things something among them for me. And always, while I am still young, there is that dim light, the Future. But it is indeed a dim, dim light, and ofttimes there’s a treachery in it.
It is the trivial little facts about anything that describe it the most effectively.
People say of me, ‘She’s peculiar.’ They do not understand me. If they did they would say so oftener and with emphasis.
From insipid sweet wine; from men who wear moustaches; from the sort of people that call legs ‘limbs’; from bedraggled white petticoats: Kind Devil, deliver me.
May I never, I say, become that abnormal, merciless animal, that deformed monstrosity— a virtuous woman. Anything, Devil, but that.