Devil, or Fate, or whosoever it was, has flayed me of the thick outer skin and thrown me out into the midst of life—has left me a lonely, damned thing filled with the red, red blood of ambition and desire, but afraid to be touched, for there is no thick skin between my sensitive flesh and the world's fingers.
But I want to be touched.
Napoleon was a man, and though sensitive his flesh was safely covered.
But I am a woman, awakening, and upon awakening and looking about me, I would fain turn and go back to sleep.
There is a pain that goes with these things when one is a woman, young, and all alone.
I am filled with an ambition. I wish to give to the world a naked Portrayal of Mary MacLane: her wooden heart, her good young woman's-body, her mind, her soul.
I wish to write, write, write!
I wish to acquire that beautiful,
