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Mary MacLane. I, Mary MacLane: A Diary of Human Days
I, Mary MacLane: A Diary of Human Days
Table of Contents
A crucible of my own making
Half inevitably, half by choice
A twisted moral
Everyday and to-morrow
A mathematic dead-wall
My neat blue chair
A lost person
A thin damnedness
A prison of self
A winding sheet
The Dover road
The harp of worn strings
A strongly-windy Saturday
A someway separate individual
Sincerity and despair
It’s not death
A human prerogative
The merciless beauty
My shoes
An eerie quality
A helliad
Swift go my days
By the blood of dead Americans
To express me
Bastard lacy valentines
Sweet fine sweatings of blood
Instinct—a ‘first law’
Loose twos
Knitting or plaiting straw
A life-long lonely word
Their voices
My damns
To God, care of the whistling winds
A working diaphragm
Lot’s wife
My echoing footsteps
A comfortably vicious person
In my black dress and my still room
Their little shoes
The sleep of the dead
Stickily mad
God compensates me
The strange braveness
Just beneath my skin
God’s kindly caprice
A fascinating creature
No resonance
Black-browed Wednesdays
The conscious analyst
Eye when I mean tooth
A wild mare
The mist
A white liner
Beneficent bedlam
A deathly pathos
The necklace
Slyly garbling and cross-purposing
Not quite voilà-tout
A damned spider
To wander and hang and float about
A thousand kisses
A fluttering-moth wish
Twenty inches of ajarness
A profoundly delicious idea
A mountebank’s cloak
A familiar sharp twist
A dark bright fierce fire
Late afternoon
An ancient witch-light
The gray-purple
The subdivided cell
Food and fire
The edge of mist-and-silver
A right shape and size
Ice-water, corrosive acid and human breath
Rhythm
A prayer-feeling
Отрывок из книги
Mary MacLane
Published by Good Press, 2019
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Then I come up to my room and sit on the floor by my low bookcase and read some last-century English poets—the Brownings and Shelley and the unspeakable John Keats. The Poets make me a space of incalescent magic and loveliness. They are the beings blest of a flaming Heaven. In the midst of soddenest earthiness their fiery wings ‘pierce the night.’
Then I’m thrilledly tired. I close the books and make ready for my bed in a lyric-feeling languor. A soft soothing unsnapping of whalebone stays: a muffled rhythmic undoing of metal-and-silk-rubber garters: a pushing down and sliding out of daytime clothes and into a thin pale cool silk nightgown: a hurried brushing of hair: an anointing of hands and throat with faint-scented cream: a goodnight to Me in the mirror: a last wave of a fateful thing—my life-essence—casual and determined and contemptuous and menacing—sweeping down over me in an invisible shower: and I’m betwixt smooth linen sheets.
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