There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips.
…when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life’s mystery.
What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! Free! Body and soul free! She kept whispering.
She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in.
So does he live, seeking, finding, joying and suffering.
Her husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without love as an excuse.
Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion.
The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies
She had resolved to never take another step backward.
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.
She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.
I leave such ventures ti you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood.
She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a first breath of freedom.
A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light which, showing the way, forbids it.
She wanted to destroy something. The crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.
But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing.
I wonder if any night on earth will be like this one. It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad tonight.
She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day.
She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency her thoughts, and stopped abruptly.
I trust it will not be giving away professional secrets to say that many readers would be surprised, perhaps shocked, at the questions which some newspaper editors will put to a defenseless woman under the guise of flattery.
To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts – absolute gifts – which have not been acquired by one’s own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist much possess the courageous soul.