My Intention To Lecture Is

I Began To Be A Woman At Twelve, Or More Properly, A Genius.

I Can Think Of Nothing In The World Like The Utter Littleness, The Paltriness, The Contemptibleness, The Degradation, Of The Woman Who Is Tied Down Under A Roof With A Man Who Is Really Nothing To Her; Who Wears The Man’s Name, Who Bears The Man’s Children — Who Plays The Virtuous Woman. . . . May I Never, I Say, Become That Abnormal Merciless Animal, That Deformed Monstrosity — A Virtuous Woman.

I Have Read Of Women Who Have Been Strongly, Grandly Brave. Sometimes I Have Dreamed That I Might Be Brave. The Possibilities Of This Life Are Magnificent.

I Consider Calmly The Question Of How Much Evil I Should Need To Kill Off My Finer Feelings.

Well, If I Am Not Vulgar, Neither Is My Book. I Wrote Myself. Suggestiveness Is Always Vulgar. But Truth Never. My Book Is Not Even Remotely Suggestive. I Call Things By Their Names. That Is All.