Dagny




Objectively speaking, the beautiful mind is an unmatched entity.

Velveteen Love


My Velveteen Love

I loved him because he was a little broken -
bashed up
smushed in
worn out
Faded in all the places
That had known too much sunlight
beach, sand, kisses.
Alone in the knowledge
Of what it meant to be the favorite
and also the forgotten.
He always stood a little apart -
Children prefer new toys these days
But I loved him because he was used
Complicated to care for
Vintage in years
But at heart
Forever a toy.

-Anisha

Regarding My Father

 
 
 

Some fathers - especially the incredibly intelligent, successful ones - shall, via some miracle, realize where their success is needed most and come back. . . to us.

The Summers Die

Why should I save his hide? Why should I right this wrong. . . when I have come so far and struggled for so long. If I speak, I am condemned. If I stay silent, I am damned. Bring him home? Who am I. And who was he? I thought I knew and now I know there isn't much left to know. . . except when the city goes to bed and I can live inside my head. The trees are bare and everywhere the streets. . . the streets are full of strangers. 



In the rain, the pavement shines like silver. All the lights are misty in the river. . . in the darkness, the trees are full of starlight. Moon child fading to crescent and then all that is left is a reflection of a girl who once was but now is no more. 

Too Many Stories



I miss us every day. Only we knew.

Dagny Taggart

. . . to know her is to know me. . . it is as simple and as complicated as that.

The Elusive
I don’t know what she does at night. Nothing much, I guess. . . . No, she never goes out with anyone. She sits at home, mostly, and listens to music.

It was only in the first few years that she felt herself screaming silently, at times, for a glimpse of human ability, a single glimpse of clean, hard, radiant competence. She had fits of tortured longing for a friend or an enemy with a mind better than her own. 

[As a child] she took it as a regrettable accident, to be borne patiently for a while, that she happened to be imprisoned among people who were dull. She had caught a glimpse of another world and she knew that it existed somewhere, the world that had created trains, bridges, telegraph wires and signal lights winking in the night. She had to wait, she thought, and grow up to that world.

When she opened her eyes, she saw sunlight, green leaves and a man's face. She thought: I know what this is. This was the world as she had expected to see it at sixteen – and now she had reached it. 

Dagny through the eyes of her mother:
Mrs. Taggart watched her daughter in unhappy bewilderment. She could have forgiven all the omissions, but one: Dagny showed no sign of interest in men, no romantic inclination whatever. Mrs. Taggart did not approve of extremes; she had been prepared to contend with an extreme of the opposite kind, if necessary; she found herself thinking that this was worse. She felt embarrassed when she had to admit that her daughter, at seventeen, did not have a single admirer.

"Dagny and Francisco d'Anconia?" she said, smiling ruefully, in answer to the curiosity of her friends. "Oh no, it's not a romance. It's an international industrial cartel of some kind. That's all they seem to care about."

Mrs. Taggart heard James say one evening, in the presence of guests, a peculiar tone of satisfaction in his voice, "Dagny, even though you were named after her, you really look more like Nat Taggart than like that first Dagny Taggart, the famous beauty who was his wife." Mrs. Taggart did not know which offended her most: that James said it or that Dagny accepted it happily as a compliment.

She would never have a chance, thought Mrs. Taggart, to form some conception of her own daughter. Dagny was only a figure hurrying in and out of the apartment, a slim figure in a leather jacket, with a raised collar, a short skirt and long show-girl legs. She walked, cutting across a room, with a masculine, straight-line abruptness, but she had a peculiar grace of motion that was swift, tense and oddly, challengingly feminine.

At times, catching a glimpse of Dagny's face, Mrs. Taggart caught an expression which she could not quite define: it was much more than gaiety, it was the look of such an untouched purity of enjoyment that she found it abnormal, too: no young girl could be so insensitive to have discovered no sadness in life. Her daughter, she concluded, was incapable of emotion.

"Dagny," she asked once, "don't you ever want to have a good time?" Dagny looked at her incredulously and answered, "What do you think I'm having?"

The decision to give her daughter a formal debut cost Mrs. Taggart a great deal of anxious thought. She did not know whether she was introducing to New York society Miss Dagny Taggart of the Social Register or the night operator of Rockdale Station; she was inclined to believe it was more truly this last; and she felt certain that Dagny would reject the idea of such an occasion. She was astonished when Dagny accepted it with inexplicable eagerness, for once like a child.

She was astonished again, when she saw Dagny dressed for the party. It was the first feminine dress she had ever worn—a gown of white chiffon with a huge skirt that floated like a cloud. Mrs. Taggart had expected her to look like a preposterous contrast. Dagny looked like a beauty. She seemed both older and more radiantly innocent than usual; standing in front of the mirror, she held her head as Nat Taggart's wife would have held it.

"Dagny," Mrs. Taggart said gently, reproachfully, "do you see how beautiful you can be when you want to?"

"Yes," said Dagny, without any astonishment.

The ballroom of the Wayne-Falkland Hotel had been decorated under Mrs. Taggart's direction; she had an artist's taste, and the setting of that evening was her masterpiece. "Dagny, there are things I would like you to learn to notice," she said, "lights, colors, flowers, music they are not as negligible as you might think."

"I've never thought they're negligible," Dagny answered happily. For once, Mrs. Taggart felt a bond between them; Dagny was looking at her with a child's grateful trust. "They're the things that make life beautiful," said Mrs. Taggart. "I want this evening to be very beautiful for you, Dagny. The first ball is the most romantic event of one's life."

To Mrs. Taggart, the greatest surprise was the moment when she saw Dagny standing under the lights, looking at the ballroom. This was not a child, not a girl, but a woman of such confident, dangerous power that Mrs. Taggart stared at her with shocked admiration. In an age of casual, cynical, indifferent routine, among people who held themselves as if they were not flesh, but meat—Dagny's bearing seemed almost indecent, because this was the way a woman would have faced a ballroom centuries ago, when the act of displaying one's half-naked body for the admiration of men was an act of daring, when it had meaning, and but one meaning, acknowledged by all as a high adventure. And this—thought Mrs. Taggart, smiling—was the girl she had believed to be devoid of sexual capacity. She felt an immense relief, and a touch of amusement at the thought that a discovery of this kind should make her feel relieved.


The Untrustworthy Speaker by Louise Gluck


Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.

I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.

It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-

I never see myself.

In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.

When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.

When a living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.

That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.


Louise Glück Pierces On


Too Fragile For This Life


Neverland, and the darkness of Peter Pan.
Only the good die young.
Poor, abandoned, lost boy. . .

Favorite Color, Favorite Dog, Favorite Lyrics - Isn't It Pretty To Think So


In heraldry, where it is called for (for gold) the color yellow stands for the positive virtues of faith, constancy, wisdom, and glory. It also has been thought of as being a color that represents playfulness, light, creativity, warmth, mental powers, charm, confidence, vision, joy, enthusiasm, optimism, and an easy going attitude about life. The color yellow also has many negative associations as well, among them are jealousy, treachery, cowardice, aging, and illness. Yellow represents the direction East. In Hindu belief, it represents the solar plexus chakra.

Dido Says It Best





The Visual



It Is

And You Faded, Too


Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end
Always the end
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad that it was over

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened
And that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger
And that feels so rough
You didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records
And then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
But had me believing it was always something that I'd done
And I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know...

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened
And that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger
And that feels so rough
You didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records
And then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Always Was

Knocks On A Door

Them. Me. Us. Again and again and again and I wonder if there's anyone left who doesn't want to break anything anymore. China cabinet all empty.  Shattered dishes everywhere.



She thought too much.



"The 60-year-old Taylor, who kicked his drug habit shortly after their marriage ended, lives in the Berkshires with his third wife and two young sons. Simon, 62, whose 20-year marriage to writer-businessman Jim Hart ended in divorce last year, lives in the house that Taylor built on a 40-acre spread in Martha's Vineyard full of flowers and animals.
Taylor does not keep in contact with his former wife and made no mention of their years together in his autobiographical "One Man Band" show released as a CD-DVD last year.
"I'm so erased, so erased," said Simon. "I don't think James has forgotten in any way. If he had forgotten, he wouldn't be behaving in the way he is."








Silence is a kind of love, too.

And it was. . .

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going directly the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Watch It Burn




Belief, like fear or superstition or religion, is founded in fantasy. The end of belief is the end. Or Holden missing one as he or she fell over the cliff. . . even though he is supposed to be the catcher in the rye. You can't catch everything. Accepting the miss, acknowledging the loss - and then finding the heart to believe again in time is the journey. Sometimes it feels all uphill because when memories are beautiful they can pierce. The key is to focus on forgetting. Some are harder to forget than others. . .here's to Skylar Grey, who wrote the lyrics to the song Eminen and Rhianna rap. I always find myself back to music; there is so much comfort in finding lyrics that tell a story you can't yet find the words to describe.

The heart is less alone if someone else has felt this way.

". . . and we fell back into the same patterns, same routine. . . you're the same as me."

And so it goes, the ebb and flow, the tide pulls back again and I am as I always was. 

Pablo Neruda, Born July 12

My favorite poem. . . 



Settle for nothing less.

I Know

Lady Brett Ashley. . .Still


The Sun Also Rises
 by Ernest Hemingway
       

I never make plans.
He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing.
She was afraid of so many things. 
What is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.
Love is hell on earth.
Don't get drunk. . . you don't have to.

Iphigenia's Scar - A Poem About The Fall of The House of Atreus, And My Father

Yours is not a single farewell
Given ceremoniously at some famed port
No -
Yours is a series of departures
Fresh, raw, unprecedented
Bruising each tender day
With a stamp of rejection. 
I am wading in a sea of memories
Haunted by every empty horizon
And the wail of the Sirens is deafening now -
Repeating over, and over, and over
It never was
It never was
It never was. 

For Agamemnon the journey was worth the sacrifice
So he looked only ahead
Giving no acknowledgement to the victory that was already by his side
As she followed him up the mountain
Eyes shining, forever in love
Her father
Whole world centered on the careless hold of his hand
Which would soon let go
And come crashing down
Before she could utter the warning
That hollow winds would lead him
On a lifeless journey.

And now that you have sailed away
Home no longer exists
We are all lost at sea
Mere ghosts of our former selves
Interacting without meaning or consequence or thought
Slipping through days
Sinking into the night
Grasping for an occasional memory
That makes us real again, even for an instant
But even the memory is a betrayal. 

I think I died right before you killed me
The knowledge of your betrayal was enough
So that the actual departure became a poorly attended funeral
That was quickly forgotten
In the glory of your victory.
Your name is etched in permanent marker
On anonymous boxes scattered throughout the house
Like an incantation repeated endlessly
Acknowledging your simultaneous departure and presence
In the hollow cavern that was once our home.
Outside the ivy we planted
Peeps hopefully into empty windows
And bleeds back into the earth. 

I wish that those who say Iphigenia survived
Spoke true
That she broke free of her father’s shadow
And cursed the fateful hand before it cursed her.
Yet those who speak of her survival
Do so with downcast eyes
And faraway glances
At a sea that holds many secrets
Of journeys spurred on only after immense sacrifice. 
I wish that those who say Iphigenia sailed away
Saw her launch her ship
On the eve of her father’s departure
Leaving him to miss her.
Yet those who speak of her escape
Can never quite recall the direction of her course
And avoid my endless questions
About a girl who forsake her father
Before he forsook her. 


Ours is not an immortal epic for the ages
A song that will be sung and remembered
And revered -
Ours is not a legend that will survive the decades
Or even the years.
Ours is a single, broken chord
Stained with bitterness and regret
Trampled
Broken
Forgotten.

And so it became a cursed love
One that would be damaged beyond repair 
And because it was a tale often told
It began to lose its meaning 
And since no one could ever take the place of her father
Men no longer existed 
And since she could neither forgive nor hate
The emptiness stretched onwards 
Like a gaping hole. 
                             
Clytamnestra waited
Waited and remembered
Remembered and plotted 
When the same winds that blew him from her
Blew him back again
She recalled the original departure with vivid clarity 
Agamemnon returned in all his glory
Battleships returned and docked at victorious ports
The heart of the world beating in his palm 
Fury of woman, anguish of mother
Clytamnestra’s bloody rage splattered on cold marble
Iphigenia avenged 
But my mother weeps quietly.


She fought him all the way up the mountain
Cursed his decision and screamed for her mother

Invoked the gods to bring down their wrath
And begged them simultaneously to bring peace to her house. 
In the last moments, though
When it was just father and daughter
Alone on the peak
She fought him no longer. 
There are no living witnesses
But there are those who say
That in their final moments
There was only tenderness.

The House of Atreus was built on Iphigenia’s love for Agamemnon
And if Helen’s face turned the proud Greeks eastward to Troy

Then Iphigenia surely cast the first victorious sail
For even though it is said that the wisest goddess loved Greece best
It was the mortal child who ultimately lay willing at the alter
Assuring her father eternally favorable winds.

I dreamed last night that you came back to us
The sea tenderly washing you onto our shores
And all the battles and years of abandonment
Became the dream
So that all that was real
Was how the story began and not
How it has unfolded. 
Awake, I search for our story
In distant myths and legends
Seeking answers
Always hoping that the stories will change
But they all end
How ours has now
The House of Atreus was glorious once, too. 
  

You Tell Me

My Favorite Moonlight Sonata

There's something about the moonlight that brings the unlikely together in a way that resonates so profoundly they're both left permanently altered.




July 12 Child Astrology Reading



The July 12 birth date comes under a considerable influence from the planet Mars, and this can result in a person who is likely to be one who has a great potential for leadership. There are however, certain confrontational aspects associated with Mars, and as result you would be wise to guard against your possible potential to show a lack of humility.


This birth date can be particularly influenced by the rhythms associated with the moon, and this can be expressed by variations in your moods. During your highs you can be highly expressive to those around you and will enthusiastically take part in the experiences of life. At other times, when feeling low, you are likely to withdraw away, and into yourself in order to seek quite and solitude.


Your periods of highs and lows are somewhat unpredictable, and you are quite capable of suddenly changing from one to the other to the confusion of those around you. People who are close to you however, will generally learn to just leave you with it when on one of your emotional lows, and to give you the time to reorganize yourself in your own time.


A characteristic associated with those born on the July 12 day is that of being able to sense, and to respond to potential in what might appear to be a game of chance. You have the ability to create, what to others, might seem to be the impossible. At your best, you have the ability to very quickly understand the ramifications existent in any set of circumstances. As result, you should seize upon the opportunities that you encounter.

You must seize the opportunities you identify and then act upon their potential. Some July 12 birthdays are located in relation to the fixed star of Castor, and in more ancient times it was believed that this influence related to the receipt of sudden honors, but followed by disgrace. Irrespective of any honors that arise in your life, you are one who has a serious and studios nature, with that ability to be able to share your abilities and talents in order to generate co-operative relationships among others.



The written word is important to you, and books in particular. High quality leather bound volumes are likely to be found in your bookcase cabinet. With your inherent interest in family and family history, books passed down through the family will be treasured possessions for you. Family mementos of all kinds are likely to be retained by the July 12 as emotional connections to your past. As a July 12, music can be an important factor in your life, and collections of music on tapes, vinyl records or modern discs will form a feature in your home. Dark blue and bright yellow are colors compatible with your July 12 birth date, and pearls, ruby and fire opal are gems that can help to inspire your sense of initiative. On the home front, the July 12 will appreciate a home design that infers an atmosphere of plenty of space. 

You are likely to favor curved shape designs over those of the straight or angular within your home. As example, curved effect at the meeting of the walls to ceilings and well-shaped furniture designs, over that of clean-cut square effect. To maintain some association with your ruling planet, the moon, you might like to consider keeping some form of representation of the moon within the home. As example, this might take the form of a calendar depicting photos of the moon, or some other attractive framed picture or image mounted on a wall in the house. 


On the outdoors front, most outdoor environments that involve some form of water setting will appeal to those of the July 12 birth date. As examples, beaches, lake lands, mountain streams or a park with a pond can provide of delight to you.



Your special magic numbers are 1 and 9. The twelfth day of the seventh month reduces to one, and the number one signifies that of beginnings, initiative, and originality. This number carries a singleness of purpose and a sense of unity.


Love Match: Cancer and Pisces are starry-eyed lovers, moved by the same mysterious moods and sensations. At the surface, these signs seem more sensitive and receptive than any other two signs. They are intuitive, at times perhaps even psychic, utterly aware of each other's feelings and wishes (and those of everybody else's, too). Naturally this is a blessing as well as a curse. It is safe to say that in the best of scenarios there is no romance more beautiful than that of Cancer and Pisces; giving, loving, highly compatible and completely merging together. But then again they may leech on each other, sucking all energy and emotion from the relationship and the partner. These two romantics could withdraw from the world into a messy, dysfunctional existence together, keeping nothing but a vague hope. What is needed is some airy or earthy influences that can ground the relationship in clear thought and some everyday reality. 


Cancer is more likely to be the practical of the two - on the other hand, also more defensive and touchy. Cancer's need for safety provides them with direction and drive, while Pisces can daydream till the bitter end. Later, when Cancer finds themselves in one of their sombre moods, the wise and patient Piscean make them whole again through understanding and inner strength. Once awakened, the love and tenderness for the partner seldom disappear completely with Cancer and Pisces.

Search



The goal: to find a man in real life who is the answer.
WHO IS JOHN GALT?

Nocturne in Blue

And there it is again
The rising, falling
Ever building fountain
Lifetimes of avoidance 
Spilling 
At our feet.

You see it, too
Thinking you would leave
If you were me
You hate you, too
But it's too far gone now;
The wilderness
Beckons.

Raised voices
Incessant howls
Countless, relentless
Helpless
Numbness
Doors locked, doors opened
It won't end
Madness begets madness.

It’s not what you said
Or did
Or didn’t do
Or are
Or are not.

I choke on the same air
From which we once built castles
Forgiveness spreads like cancer.

Me, 2010

What a night for a dance, you know I'm a dancing machine
With a fire in my bones and the sweet taste of kerosene
I get lost in the night so high I don't want to come down
To face the loss of the good thing that I've found


In the dark of the night I could hear you calling my name
With the hardest of hearts I still feel full of pain
So I drink and I smoke and I ask you if you're ever around
Even though it was me who drove us right in the ground


See the time we shared it was precious to me
But all the while I was dreaming of revelry


Born to run, baby run like a stream down a mountainside
With the wind in my back I don't ever even bat an eye
Just know it was you all along who had a hold of my heart
But the demon and me were the best of friends from the start


So the time we shared it was precious to me
All the while I was dreaming of revelry
Dreaming of revelry


And I told myself boy away you go, it rained so hard it felt like snow
Everything came tumbling down on me
In the back of the woods in the dark of the night
Paleness of the old moonlight everything just felt so incomplete


I was there once, too. This also has been one of the dark places of the earth.

The Men Who Love You. . .


. . .she wears my love like a see-through dress.

Nobody



You said once 
I'm like the song
A piece of glass, left there on the beach
Will always have a gypsy heart
Prefer to search,
Not to find
The one I will love won't bleed
I am so sorry for your wound
You never had my heart.

I Won't Think About That Now. I'll Think About It Tomorrow.


It's the best kept secret on how to get by some days. 

And Then, One Day. . .

My Light

My mother spoke of the origin of my name:
"The first ray of the sun's light"
And a lifelong chase ensued
Always the subtle glow in the distance
Warmth of a Vermeer hearth
Painted in tender brushstrokes
Whispering promises
Of a future when all will be drenched
In a lightness of being Milan Kundera knows
Said simply, 
In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary.
-Anisha




The Lost Generation

"You are all a lost generation." -Gertrude Stein







Upon My Birthday Eve


Total solar eclipse
And a new moon
In Cancer
The first year
Of my home on 69th street


Absence of light only sheds clarity
The Moon child sees best
In the dark
It has always been that way.

The Way We Were


The All American Smile
by Hubbell Gardner (played by Robert Redford)

"In a way he was like the country he lived in; everything came too easily to him. But at least he knew it. About once a month he worried that he was a fraud, but then most everyone he knew was more fraudulent. Sometimes he felt. . . there's really no reason for us to change.  Of course by then they were too lost, or too lazy.  It had always been too easy."
-The Way We Were, 1973


Je Sais Ce Que Tu Veux Dire

Il bel far niente means “the beauty of doing nothing.” Italians have traditionally always been hard workers, but even against that backdrop of hard work, il bel far niente has always been a cherished Italian ideal. The beauty of doing nothing is the goal of all your work, the final accomplishment for which you are most highly congratulated. The more exquisitely and delightfully you can do nothing, the higher your life’s achievement. You don’t necessarily need to be rich in order to experience this, either. There’s another wonderful Italian expression: l’arte d’arrangiarsi – the art of making something out of nothing. The art of turning a few simple ingredients into a feast, or a few gathered friends into a festival. Anyone with a talent for happiness can do this.



People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life.

So You Think Money Is The Root Of All Evil? How I Define Money...



"So you think that money is the root of all evil?" said Francisco d'Aconia. "Have you ever asked what is the root of money? Money is a tool of exchange, which can't exist unless there are goods produced and men able to produce them. Money is the material shape of the principle that men who wish to deal with one another must deal by trade and give value for value. Money is not the tool of the moochers, who claim your product by tears, or of the looters, who take it from you by force. Money is made possible only by the men who produce. Is this what you consider evil?
"When you accept money in payment for your effort, you do so only on the conviction that you will exchange it for the product of the effort of others. It is not the moochers or the looters who give value to money. Not an ocean of tears nor all the guns in the world can transform those pieces of paper in your wallet into the bread you will need to survive tomorrow. Those pieces of paper, which should have been gold, are a token of honor – your claim upon the energy of the men who produce. Your wallet is your statement of hope that somewhere in the world around you there are men who will not default on that moral principle which is the root of money. Is this what you consider evil?

Wisdom in Obscurity



Their lives were ruined, he thought; ruined by the fundamental error of their matrimonial union: that of having based a permanent contract on a temporary feeling.

People go on marrying because they can't resist natural forces, although many of them may know perfectly well that they are possibly buying a month's pleasure with a life's discomfort. 

It is foreign to a man's nature to go on loving a person when he is told that he must and shall be that person's lover. There would be a much likelier chance of his doing it if he were told not to love. If the marriage ceremony consisted in an oath and signed contract between the parties to cease loving from that day forward, in consideration of personal possession being given, and to avoid each other's society as much as possible in public, there would be more loving couples than there are now. Fancy the secret meetings between the perjuring husband and wife, the denials of having seen each other, the clambering in at bedroom windows, and the hiding in closets! There'd be little cooling then.


As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the center of your time, and not at a point in its circumference, as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of shuddering, he perceived. All around you there seemed to be something glaring, garish, rattling, and the noises and glares hit upon the little cell called your life, and shook it, and warped it.


Sometimes a woman's love of being loved gets the better of her conscience, and though she is agonized at the thought of treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn't love him at all.

It seems such a terribly tragic thing to bring beings into the world.