My Life-Isadora Duncan
Preston Sturges said of Mary Desti, "In no sense was my mother a liar...nor even intentionally unacquainted with the truth. She was, however, endowed with such a rich and powerful imagination that anything she had said three times, she believed firmly. Often, twice was enough." For Duncan, once was perhaps enough. (xii)
So if at each point of view others see in us a different person, how are we to find in ourselves yet another personality of whom to write in this book? Is it to be the Chaste Madonna, or the Messalina, or the Magdalen, or the Blue Stocking? Where can I find the woman of all these adventures? It seems to me there was not one, but hundreds-and my soul soaring aloft, not really affected by any of them. (xxxii)
It is only in romances that people undergo a sudden metamorphosis. In real life, even after the most terrible experiences, the main character remains exactly the same. (xxxiii)
"What can you do?" said the woman at the counter.
"Anything," I answered.
"Well, you look as if you could do nothing!" (17)
She was very sweet and sympathetic. But she had a strange mania of living on oranges and refusing other food. I suppose she was not made for this earth, for some years afterwards I read of her death from pernicious anaemia. (28)
For I was never able to understand, then or later on, why if one wanted to do a thing, one should not do it. For I have never waited to do as I wished. This has frequently brought me to disaster and calamity, but at least I have had the satisfaction of getting my own way. (44)
...which proves that there is no necessity to censor the literature of the young. What one has not experienced, one will never understand in print. (63)
One might say that the American trend of education is to reduce the senses almost to nil. (64)
I am glad that I was young in a day when people were not so self-conscious as they are now; when they were not such haters of Life and Pleasure. (131)
There are joys so complete, so all perfect, that one should not survive them. (159)
I suppose truth and mutual faith are the first principles of love. (163)
A very witty American writer once replied to his mistress, when she said: "What would the child think of us if we were not married?" by saying: "If your child and my child were that sort of child, we would not care what it thought of us." (163)
With alternate hope and despair, I often thought of the pilgrimage of my childhood, my youth, my wanderings in distant countries, my discoveries in Art, and they were as a misty, far-away prologue, leading up to this-the before-birth of a child. What any peasant woman could have! This was the culminating point of all my ambitions. (169)
"I want your mouth, Johannes-your mouth," and not your head on a charger, for that is the Vampire, not the Inspirational. (192)
Perhaps there is no complete joy in life, but only hope. (199)
How strong, egotistical, and ferocious a possession is mother love. I do not think it is very admirable. It would be infinitely more admirable to be able to love all children. (201)
The recent discoveries of mental telepathy have proven that brain-waves pass through air-passages that are sympathetic to them and reach their destination, sometimes even without the consciousness of the sender. (201)
...for now that I had discovered that love might be a pastime as well as a tragedy, I gave myself to it with pagan innocence. Men seemed so hungry for beauty, hungry for that love which refreshed and inspires without fear or responsibility. After a performance, in my tunic, with my hair crowned with roses, I was so lovely. Why should not this loveliness be enjoyed? (224)
Sometimes I have a feeling that the dead do not go to a far country, nor do they hover about us invisible. I have an intuition that at the moment of death they penetrate-possess us-inhabit us, and if they are strong enough they subjugate us, or if not, we dominate them, keeping them in the cellars of our subconsciousness and only allowing them to come out on occasion. (246)
When my health and strength came back, this life among the refugees became impossible for me. No doubt there is a great difference between the life of the artist and that of the saint. (251)
I am trying to write down the truth, but the truth runs away and hides from me. How find the truth? If I were a writer, and had written of my life twenty novels or so, it would be nearer the truth. (288)
...although I can already hear the voices of all the so-called good women of the world saying: "A most disgraceful history." All her misfortunes are only a just requital of her sins." But I am not conscious of having sinned. Nietzsche says, "Woman is a mirror," and I have only reflected and reacted to the people and forces that have seized me and, like the heroines of the Metamorphoses of Ovid, have changed form and character according to the decree of the immortal gods. (289)
Art gives form and harmony to what in life is chaos and discord. (291)
If I have parted from so many, I can only blame the fickleness of men and the cruelty of Fate. (293)
I had brought no dresses along. I pictured myself spending the rest of my life in a red flannel blouse among comrades equally simply dressed and filled with brotherly love. (321)
So if at each point of view others see in us a different person, how are we to find in ourselves yet another personality of whom to write in this book? Is it to be the Chaste Madonna, or the Messalina, or the Magdalen, or the Blue Stocking? Where can I find the woman of all these adventures? It seems to me there was not one, but hundreds-and my soul soaring aloft, not really affected by any of them. (xxxii)
It is only in romances that people undergo a sudden metamorphosis. In real life, even after the most terrible experiences, the main character remains exactly the same. (xxxiii)
"What can you do?" said the woman at the counter.
"Anything," I answered.
"Well, you look as if you could do nothing!" (17)
She was very sweet and sympathetic. But she had a strange mania of living on oranges and refusing other food. I suppose she was not made for this earth, for some years afterwards I read of her death from pernicious anaemia. (28)
For I was never able to understand, then or later on, why if one wanted to do a thing, one should not do it. For I have never waited to do as I wished. This has frequently brought me to disaster and calamity, but at least I have had the satisfaction of getting my own way. (44)
...which proves that there is no necessity to censor the literature of the young. What one has not experienced, one will never understand in print. (63)
One might say that the American trend of education is to reduce the senses almost to nil. (64)
I am glad that I was young in a day when people were not so self-conscious as they are now; when they were not such haters of Life and Pleasure. (131)
There are joys so complete, so all perfect, that one should not survive them. (159)
I suppose truth and mutual faith are the first principles of love. (163)
A very witty American writer once replied to his mistress, when she said: "What would the child think of us if we were not married?" by saying: "If your child and my child were that sort of child, we would not care what it thought of us." (163)
With alternate hope and despair, I often thought of the pilgrimage of my childhood, my youth, my wanderings in distant countries, my discoveries in Art, and they were as a misty, far-away prologue, leading up to this-the before-birth of a child. What any peasant woman could have! This was the culminating point of all my ambitions. (169)
"I want your mouth, Johannes-your mouth," and not your head on a charger, for that is the Vampire, not the Inspirational. (192)
Perhaps there is no complete joy in life, but only hope. (199)
How strong, egotistical, and ferocious a possession is mother love. I do not think it is very admirable. It would be infinitely more admirable to be able to love all children. (201)
The recent discoveries of mental telepathy have proven that brain-waves pass through air-passages that are sympathetic to them and reach their destination, sometimes even without the consciousness of the sender. (201)
...for now that I had discovered that love might be a pastime as well as a tragedy, I gave myself to it with pagan innocence. Men seemed so hungry for beauty, hungry for that love which refreshed and inspires without fear or responsibility. After a performance, in my tunic, with my hair crowned with roses, I was so lovely. Why should not this loveliness be enjoyed? (224)
Sometimes I have a feeling that the dead do not go to a far country, nor do they hover about us invisible. I have an intuition that at the moment of death they penetrate-possess us-inhabit us, and if they are strong enough they subjugate us, or if not, we dominate them, keeping them in the cellars of our subconsciousness and only allowing them to come out on occasion. (246)
When my health and strength came back, this life among the refugees became impossible for me. No doubt there is a great difference between the life of the artist and that of the saint. (251)
I am trying to write down the truth, but the truth runs away and hides from me. How find the truth? If I were a writer, and had written of my life twenty novels or so, it would be nearer the truth. (288)
...although I can already hear the voices of all the so-called good women of the world saying: "A most disgraceful history." All her misfortunes are only a just requital of her sins." But I am not conscious of having sinned. Nietzsche says, "Woman is a mirror," and I have only reflected and reacted to the people and forces that have seized me and, like the heroines of the Metamorphoses of Ovid, have changed form and character according to the decree of the immortal gods. (289)
Art gives form and harmony to what in life is chaos and discord. (291)
If I have parted from so many, I can only blame the fickleness of men and the cruelty of Fate. (293)
I had brought no dresses along. I pictured myself spending the rest of my life in a red flannel blouse among comrades equally simply dressed and filled with brotherly love. (321)