It is with pain that I read of the dire effects of my book upon the minds of young girls. Mary MacLane bookdireeffect Change image and share on social
The world is like a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn. Mary MacLane fillhawthornmarsh Change image and share on social
The only joy I had was writing what was. That book was. It no longer amuses me to be all the things I was when I wrote that. But it is my story as I was then. Mary MacLane amusebookjoy Change image and share on social
I would rather be a fairly happy wife and mother. Mary MacLane fairlyhappymother Change image and share on social
The book, you understand, was not written for publication. It was the portrayal of my emotions, the analysis of my own soul life during three months of my nineteenth year. I wrote then all the time, just as I do now, but, though the book is in diary form, it is not a diary. Mary MacLane analysisbookdiary share on social
Just why I sent it to the publishers would be hard to say, but when I had finished it I felt that it was literature, because it is real and because it was well written. And I know that the world wants such things. Mary MacLane feltfinishhard share on social
Let me but make a beginning, let me but strike the world in a vulnerable spot, and I can take it by storm. Mary MacLane beginmakespot Change image and share on social
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. Mary MacLane bookcallname Change image and share on social
