I wonder as I write this Portrayal if there will be one person to read it and see a thing that is mingled with every word. It is something that you must feel, that must fascinate you, the like of which you have never before met with.
It is the unparalleled individuality of me.
I wish I might write it in so many words of English. But that is not possible. If I have put it in every word and if you feel it and are fascinated, then I have done very well.
I am marvelously clever if I have done so.
I know that I am marvelously clever. But I have need of all my peculiar genius to show you my individuality—my aloneness.
I am alone out on my sand and barrenness. I should be alone if my sand and barrenness were crowded with a thousand people each filled with melting sympathy for me—though it would be unspeakably sweet.
People say of me, “She’s peculiar.” They do not understand me. If they did they would say so oftener and with emphasis.
And so I try to put my individuality in the quality of my diction, in my method of handling words.
My conversation plainly shows this individuality—more than shows it, indeed. My conversation hurls it violently at people’s heads. My conversation—when I choose—makes people turn around in their chairs and stare and give me all of their attention. They admire me, though their admiration is mixed decidedly with other feelings.
I like to be admired.