She wanted something to happen - something, anything: she did not know what.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.
Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one's life.
The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.
But whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself.
She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.
The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies
Even as a child she had lived her own small life within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life - that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.
We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else shall be of any consequence.
The delicious breath of rain was in the air.
The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant.
She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining.
A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light which, showing the way, forbids it.
There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips.
Goodbye -- Because I love you.
At a very early period she had apprehended the instinctively the dual life - that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.
There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there hope when she awoke in the morning.
The city atmosphere certainly has improved her. Some way she doesn't seem like the same woman.
She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women.
One who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of the joy that kills.
Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him.
To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gift -absolute gifts- which have not been acquired by one's effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul.
And moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul . . . the brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.
I don't mind walking. I always feel so sorry for women who don't like to walk; they miss so much--so many rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of life on the whole.
Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.
She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves.
There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.
