Do you think, pray, that there is a single woman in the world who, if she is good looking, doesn't know it?
I know, I know with a vengeance, that I am beautiful; I know it better than anything else about myself. There are not only looking-glasses, there are all the men. Whether old man, beggar, or chance passerby, you drink in, in one long intoxicating draught: "I am beautiful." And the women, if you know the terror in their eyes, the appeal, the envy, and their mute defense.... You seem unaware, smiling, distant, but you are on the eager watch for the pain you inflict.
To please.... In the presence of other people to please is wicked vanity, strutting, flaunting vanity; but here, on the bony ground, it is simply a bit of me. It is a power which has been given me, I shall not give it back; it is merely a harmony, a response to the beauty I feel, a craving to convince, a very strong craving; my life is lovelier than I.
My life is here. But what makes up my life? Not entirely my rosy good health, nor this firm equilibrium which exercises control in the centre of my being. My health and poise are, chiefly, the things that remove me from my life. My life is a need to use my muscles, it is vigorous movement, it is the notion I have that I can crush the world between my arms; yes, the longing to run, to take part in everything, to shout aloud, to dance; this animal ardor and glow in movement, this uncontrollable blood, this body swelling with liberty, with sap, with bursts of laughter, this unexpected gift of myself to myself, this curiosity and contentment, this zest and turmoil....
I have heard others speak of youth, I have seen the word of quicksilver glitter on the pages of books; I am still ignorant of its meaning; I am not quite twenty.
I hug to me all that is mine; it is not much. At first there was nothing above my head but a liquid ocean of silence, I saw nothing but a forest without perspective, but my watchful solitude became supernatural; and now as I see the solemnity of the trees, their strong solid reaching up towards heaven, as I see myself, I feel very deeply that I am alive for the first time.
I do not wish to think of the future. Let the future wait for me; it is as if a new era were beginning....
And may memory never take possession of this morning of utter unreserve; memory might distort it. And may memory never say: "This was the day of your birth and you were excited."
I am not unduly excited.... The present is always very simple. The sun is only an iridescent frolic, which flits and laughs without resting on the chapped bark of the pines.
This moment—this and none other—is made up of my robust body, the lullaby rustle of the wind-stirred leaves, the fragrance of resinous wood, the screech of a great bird, and the sky cleft by its black and white passage.