People Say Of Me, 'she's Peculiar.' They

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.

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.

At This Point I Meet Me Face To Face. I Am Mary Maclane: Of No Importance To The Wide Bright World And Dearly And Damnably Important To Me.

My Intention To Lecture Is As Vague As My Intention Is To Go On The Stage. I Will Never Consider An Offer To Lecture, Not Because I Despise The Vocation, But Because I Have No Desire To Appear On The Public Rostrum.

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.