ALSO I am dissatisfying to myself.
My thoughts smother me: they keep me from life.
I am a hundred times more introspective than most people, most women. Most women, even conventional ones, are lawless—the more conventional, the more lawless usually.
And so most women beat me to life. Where they yield to an impulse the moment they feel it—I, because an impulse itself is adventure-fabric—I feel of its quality, test it for defects, wash a little corner of it to see if the color will run—and conclude not to use it.
That I gaze inward at the garbled biograph of Me keeps me from several sorts of violent action.
I have violent action in me, chained in analysis.
Most women are secretly lawless on the old plan inaugurated by Eve—of inclining to do anything forbidden, of hugging everything they are unsupposed to hug, of determinedly kicking over the traces when coerced too much. The ban is the chief attraction.
It's but little like that with me. There would be point and purpose in my Action. But it is kept in stupor by analysis.
I am malcontent about that, though I live upon
