Genius Of A Kind Has Always Been

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.

The World Is Like A Little Marsh Filled With Mint And White Hawthorn.

But In My Life, In My Personality, There Is An Essence Of Falseness And Insincerity. A Thin, Fine Vapor Of Fraud Hangs Always Over Me And Dampens And Injures Some Things In Me That I Value.

Genius Of A Kind Has Always Been With Me; An Empty Heart That Has Taken On A Certain Wooden Quality; An Excellent, Strong Woman's Body And A Pitiably Starved Soul.

You May Think Me Crude, And Probably I Am Crude, But I Am Not So Crude As I Was, For I Am Clever Enough To See That The Girl Of Nineteen Who Thought Herself A Genius Was Only An Unusual Girl Writing Her Heart Out.