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77 - I, Mary MacLane by Mary MacLane · I, Mary MacLane

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  Speaker 1: Chapter seventy seven of I Mary mac Lain by Mary
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  Speaker 1: mac Lain. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
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  Speaker 1: Recording by Lynn Thompson, Chapter seventy seven, A prayer feeling
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  Speaker 1: to day. So it is finished, and I have oddly failed.
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  Speaker 1: I have slyly succeeded and oddly failed in equal degree.
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  Speaker 1: I have failed because I am too cowardly, and too weak,
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  Speaker 1: and too dishonest to write certain bruised and self accusing
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  Speaker 1: places in my soul, and in my heart and in
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  Speaker 1: my mind, which rightly come in the scope of this.
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  Speaker 1: There are the stern and delicate voices one closes one's
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  Speaker 1: ears against. There are the starry, grimy actualities one drops
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  Speaker 1: from one's hands. There are the thoughts one does not
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  Speaker 1: think yet, and yet they too are in it. Have
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  Speaker 1: in cobwebbish on my wordings and colons. It is not
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  Speaker 1: a strong tale, and that is very well. This book
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  Speaker 1: is less I written than it is I myself, and
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  Speaker 1: just beneath the skin. No person is strong, not Theodore Roosevelt,
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  Speaker 1: true fearless American, not Bonaparte's splendid tyrant, not Joan of
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  Speaker 1: Arc Titanic martyr. They are strong in their depths and
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  Speaker 1: strong on the outside. So are many others. So am I,
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  Speaker 1: I think, but just under the skin, all who are
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  Speaker 1: human are roundly weak, roundly weak everyone, and with that,
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  Speaker 1: in my case false. This primarily is the picture of
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  Speaker 1: one who is made false, false from her fingertips to
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  Speaker 1: her innermost concept. It is belike because of that that
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  Speaker 1: this as itself, oddly fails. It is as if I
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  Speaker 1: have made a portrait not of me, but of a
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  Speaker 1: room I have just quitted. My gloves are left on
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  Speaker 1: a chair, My hat is on a couch, My taken
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  Speaker 1: off shoes are left on the floor. My faint smelling
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  Speaker 1: handkerchief is dropped by the door. My round ribboned garter
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  Speaker 1: is hanging on the doorknob. My breath is in the air,
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  Speaker 1: My grief is on the walls, clinging like smoke. My
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  Speaker 1: flat despair is on the petunia leaves in the window,
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  Speaker 1: My fragrant horridness lingers in the curtains. I am not there,
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  Speaker 1: but I I have just quitted that room. Therein I
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  Speaker 1: have slyly succeeded. My feeling at my book's end is
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  Speaker 1: a prayer, feeling, both frantic and quiet. God have mercy
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  Speaker 1: on me. But not unless you want to. And I
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  Speaker 1: feel barbarous and utterly solitary, solitary from here to Jericho, solitary,
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  Speaker 1: from here to the cool stars. There comes off the
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  Speaker 1: grim gray East Hills a soft, whelming taste of sunset,
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  Speaker 1: bloody and full of human marrows. And I feel a
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  Speaker 1: need of great pain or great sin to make and
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  Speaker 1: break me soul and bones. End of chapter seventy seven,
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  Speaker 1: end of I Mary mc lean, A Diary of Human
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  Speaker 1: Days by Mary mac lain, read by Lynn Thompson in
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  Speaker 1: the Willamite Valley