I Would Give Up The Unessential; I

She Looked Into The Distance, And The Old Terror Flamed Up For An Instant, Then Sank Again. Edna Heard Her Father's Voice And Her Sister Margaret's. She Heard The Barking Of An Old Dog That Was Chained To The Sycamore Tree. The Spurs Of The Cavalry Officer Clanged As He Walked Across The Porch. There Was The Hum Of Bees, And The Musky Odor Of Pinks Filled The Air. (last Lines)

She Turned Her Face Seaward To Gather In An Impression Of Space And Solitude, Which The Vast Expanse Of Water, Meeting And Melting With The Moonlit Sky, Conveyed To Her Excited Fancy. As She Swam She Seemed To Be Reaching Out For The Unlimited In Which To Lose Herself.

But The Beginning Of Things, Of A World Especially, Is Necessarily Vague, Chaotic, And Exceedingly Disturbing. How Few Of Us Ever Emerge From Such Beginning! How Many Souls Perish In Its Tumult! The Voice Of The Sea Is Seductive; Never Ceasing, Whispering, Clamoring, Murmuring, Inviting The Soul To Wander For A Spell In Abysses Of Solitude; To Lose Itself In Mazes Of Inward Contemplation. The Voice Of The Sea Speaks To The Soul. The Touch Of The Sea Is Sensuous, Enfolding The Body In Its Soft, Close Embrace.

To Be An Artist Includes Much; One Must Possess Many Gifts - Absolute Gifts - Which Have Not Been Acquired By One's Own Effort. And, Moreover, To Succeed, The Artist Much Possess The Courageous Soul.

There Are Periods Of Despondency And Suffering Which Take Possession Of Me. But I Don't Want Anything But My Own Way. That Is Wanting A Good Deal, Of Course, When You Have To Trample Upon The Lives, The Hearts, The Prejudices Of Others-