A Thousand Dreams Within Me Softly Burn

There Shall Be Poets! When Woman's Unmeasured Bondage Shall Be Broken, When She Shall Live For And Through Herself, Man--hitherto Detestable--having Let Her Go, She, Too, Will Be Poet! Woman Will Find The Unknown! Will Her Ideational Worlds Be Different From Ours? She Will Come Upon Strange, Unfathomable, Repellent, Delightful Things; We Shall Take Them, We Shall Comprehend Them.

Faith Assuages, Guides, Restores.

I Don't Love Women. Love Has To Be Reinvented, We Know That. The Only Thing Women Can Ultimately Imagine Is Security. Once They Get That, Love, Beauty, Everything Else Goes Out The Window. All They Have Left Is Cold Disdain; That's What Marriages Live On Nowadays. Sometimes I See Women Who Ought To Be Happy, With Whom I Could Have Found Companionship, Already Swallowed Up By Brutes With As Much Feeling As An Old Log.

He Would Say, "how Funny It Will All Seem, All You've Gone Through, When I'm Not Here Anymore, When You No Longer Feel My Arms Around Your Shoulders, Nor My Heart Beneath You, Nor This Mouth On Your Eyes, Because I Will Have To Go Away Some Day, Far Away..." And In That Instant I Could Feel Myself With Him Gone, Dizzy With Fear, Sinking Down Into The Most Horrible Blackness: Into Death.

I May Die Of Earthly Love, Or Of Devotion.