And this is my predominating feeling for her.
So, then, it is not the woman-love, but the man-love, set in the mysterious sensibilities of my woman-nature. It brings me pain and pleasure mingled in that odd, odd fashion.
Do you think a man is the only creature with whom one may fall in love?
Often I see coming across the desert a long line of light. My soul turns toward it and shrinks away from it as it does from all the lights. Some day, perhaps, all the lights will roll into one terrible white effervescence and rush over my soul and kill it. But this light does not bring so much of pain, for it is soft and silvery, and always with it is the Soul of Anemone.
[March 8.]
THERE are several things in the world for which I, of womankind and nineteen years, have conceived a forcible repugnance—or rather, the feeling was born in me; I did not have to conceive it.
Often my mind chants a fervent litany of its own that runs somewhat like this:
From women and men who dispense odors of musk; from little boys with long curls; from the kind of people who call a woman’s figure her “shape”: Kind Devil, deliver me.
From all sweet girls; from “gentlemen”; from feminine men: Kind Devil, deliver me.