A Genius Who Does Not Know That

I Am Not Good. I Am Not Virtuous. I Am Not Sympathetic. I Am Not Generous. I Am Merely And Above All A Creature Of Intense Passionate Feeling. I Feel—everything. It Is My Genius. It Burns Me Like Fire.

I Can Think Of Nothing In The World Like The Utter Littleness, The Paltriness, The Contemptibleness, The Degradation, Of The Woman Who Is Tied Down Under A Roof With A Man Who Is Really Nothing To Her; Who Wears The Man’s Name, Who Bears The Man’s Children — Who Plays The Virtuous Woman. . . . May I Never, I Say, Become That Abnormal Merciless Animal, That Deformed Monstrosity — A Virtuous Woman.

Except Two Breeds - The Stupid And The Narrowly Feline - All Women Have A Touch Of The Lesbian: An Assertion All Good Non-analytic Creatures Refute With Horror, But Quite True: There Is Always The Poignant Intensive Personal Taste, The Flair Of Inner-sex, In The Tenderest Friendships Of Women.

I Never Give My Real Self. I Have A Hundred Sides, And I Turn First One Way And Then The Other. I Am Playing A Deep Game. I Have A Number Of Strong Cards Up My Sleeve. I Have Never Been Myself, Excepting To Two Friends.

Of Poets I Put Virgil First - He Was Greatest.