I have seen too many couples in which the man is nothing but a craving for conquest, the woman nothing, absolutely nothing, but a need to be conquered. I have seen too many who have not been visited by grace and have damned themselves to mutual ruin. A veritable attack and a semblance of defence. I have seen what is taken for love.
I have seen women steeped in trickery; the wilier they were the more love surrounded them. I have seen the heavy looks of men set about everywhere like traps.... I am worth nothing as yet, but my sound heart—I refuse it. And I say it quite low to exorcise the invisible danger: I do not like love.
"To me love is sacred...."
I understand fully what those small, naked, prying eyes were glorifying. And in the adventurous life of those eyes I see neither more nor fewer blemishes and lies than in the eyes of the young girls. Neither more nor fewer. At moments there even flashed in those eyes sparks, reflections, gleams....
A cloud is darkening the window; my room is obliterated.
But if by leaning forward and boldly offering my face to the sun and stretching out further, I could take in all his golden bounty and all his light?
I withdraw hastily from the springtime window because when a gentle flame ran over my wrist I became aware of lack of dignity: my untidy hair, the dust on me, the disorderly room.
Since the sun lives, since I long for it, love must exist. I shall find the proof of it. Quickly, my Sunday frock, order about me, flowers....
Keep it far away from me. I do not feel I am ready....