Background Image

...

…there Would Be No Powerful Will Binding Hers In That Blind Persistence With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow Creature…and Yet She Had Loved Him- Sometimes. Often She Had Not. What Did It Matter! What Could Love, The Unsolved Mystery, Count For In The Face Of This Possession Of Self-assertion Which She Suddenly Recognized As The Strongest Impulse Of Her Being.

-Kate Chopin

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

…there Would Be No

Kate Chopin

...

…there Would Be No Powerful Will Binding Hers In That Blind Persistence With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow Creature…and Yet She Had Loved Him- Sometimes. Often She Had Not. What Did It Matter! What Could Love, The Unsolved Mystery, Count For In The Face Of This Possession Of Self-assertion Which She Suddenly Recognized As The Strongest Impulse Of Her Being.

Views: 5

Topic

More From Kate Chopin

There Are Some People Who Leave Impressions Not So Lasting As The Imprint Of An Oar Upon The Water.

There Would Be No One There To Live For Her During Those Coming Years; She Would Live For Herself. There Would Be No Powerful Will Bending Hers In That Blind Persistance With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow-creature. A Kind Intention Or A Cruel Intention Made The Act Seem No Less A Crime As She Looked Upon It In That Brief Moment Of Illumination.

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.

She Was Moved By A Kind Of Commiseration... A Pity For That Colorless Existence Which Never Uplifted Its Possessor Beyond The Region Of Blind Contentment, In Which No Moment Of Anguish Ever Visited Her Soul, In Which She Would Never Have The Taste Of Life's Delirium.

Delirium Tremens

…there Would Be No Powerful Will Binding Hers In That Blind Persistence With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow Creature…and Yet She Had Loved Him- Sometimes. Often She Had Not. What Did It Matter! What Could Love, The Unsolved Mystery, Count For In The Face Of This Possession Of Self-assertion Which She Suddenly Recognized As The Strongest Impulse Of Her Being.

Exhaustion Was Pressing Upon And Overpowering Her. "good-by--because I Love You." He Did Not Know; He Did Not Understand. He Would Never Understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet Would Have Understood If She Had Seen Him--but It Was Too Late; The Shore Was Far Behind Her, And Her Strength Was Gone. She Looked Into The Distance, And The Old Terror Flamed Up For An Instant, Then Sank Again.

In Short, Mrs. Pontellier Was Beginning To Realize Her Position In The Universe As A Human Being, And To Recongize Her Relations As An Individual To The World Within And About Her. This May Seem Like A Ponderous Weight Of Wisdom To Descend Upon The Soul Of A Young Woman Of Twenty-eight - Perhaps More Wisdom Than The Holy Ghost Is Usually Pleased To Vouchsafe To Any Woman.

I Wonder If Anyone Else Has An Ear So Tuned And Sharpened As I Have, To Detect The Music, Not Of The Spheres, But Of Earth, Subtleties Of Major And Minor Chord That The Wind Strikes Upon The Tree Branches. Have You Ever Heard The Earth Breathe?

Who Can Tell What Metals The Gods Use In Forging The Subtle Bond Which We Call Sympathy, Which We Might As Well Call Love.

She Had All Her Life Long Been Accustomed To Harbor Thoughts And Emotions Which Never Voiced Themselves… They Belonged To Her Her And Were Her Own, And She Entertained The Conviction That She Had A Right To Them And They They Concerned No One But Herself.

It Is Greater Than The Stars - That Moving Procession Of Human Energy; Greater Than The Palpitating Earth And The Things Growing Thereon.

There Was A Dull Pang Of Regret Because It Was Not The Kiss Of Love Which Had Inflamed Her, Because It Was Not Love Which Had Held This Cup Of Life To Her Lips.

The Artist Must Possess The Courageous Soul That Dares And Defies

You Have Been A Very Foolish Boy, Wasting Your Time Dreaming Of Impossible Things When You Speak Of Mr. Pontellier Setting Me Free! I Am No Longer One Of Mr. Pontelliere's Possessions To Dispose Of Or Not. I Give Myself Where I Choose. If He Were To Say, 'here Robert, Take Her And Be Happy; She Is Yours,' I Should Laugh At You Both.

Impossible Things

The City Atmosphere Certainly Has Improved Her. Some Way She Doesn't Seem Like The Same Woman.

He Greatly Valued His Possessions, Chiefly Because They Were His, And Derived Genuine Pleasure From Contemplating A Painting, A Statuette, A Rare Lace Curtain - No Matter What - After He Had Bought It And Placed It Among His Household Gods.

Why?" Asked Her Companion. "why Do You Love Him When You Ought Not To?" Edna, With A Motion Or Two, Dragged Herself On Her Knees Before Mademoiselle Reisz, Who Took The Glowing Face Between Her Two Hands. "why? Because His Hair Is Brown And Grows Away From His Temples; Because He Opens And Shuts His Eyes, And His Nose Is A Little Out Of Drawing; Because He Has Two Lips And A Square Chin, And A Little Finger Which He Can't Straighten From Having Played Baseball Too Energetically In His Youth. Because - " "because You Do, In Short," Laughed Mademoiselle.

I Would Give Up My Life For My Children, But Not Myself.

There Was No Despondency When She Fell Asleep That Night; Nor Was There Hope When She Awoke In The Morning.

And Nature Takes No Account Of Moral Consequences, Of Arbitrary Conditions Which We Create, And Which We Feel Obliged To Maintain At Any Cost.

Does He Write To You? Never A Line. Does He Send You A Message? Never A Word. It Is Because He Loves You, Poor Fool, And Is Trying To Forget You, Since You Are Not Free To Listen To Him Or To Belong To Him.

Goodbye -- Because I Love You.

Have You Ever Heard The Earth Breath?

The Voice Of The Sea Speaks To The Soul. The Touch Of The Sea Is Sensuous, Enfolding The Body In Its Soft, Close Embrace.

She Missed Him The Days When Some Pretext Served To Take Him Away From Her, Just As One Misses The Sun On A Cloudy Day Without Having Thought Much About The Sun When It Was Shining.

The Peace And Beauty Of A Spring Day Had Descended Upon The Earth Like A Benediction.

The Voice Of The Sea Is Seductive, Never Ceasing, Whispering, Clamoring, Murmuring, Inviting The Soul To Wander In Abysses Of Solitude.

I Would Give Up The Unessential; I Would Give Up My Money, I Would Give Up My Life For My Children; But I Wouldnt Give Myself. I Can't Make It More Clear; It's Only Something I Am Beginning To Comprehend, Which Is Revealing Itself To Me.

A Wedding Is One Of The Most Lamentable Spectacles On Earth.

Even As A Child She Had Lived Her Own Small Life Within Herself. At A Very Early Period She Had Apprehended Instinctively The Dual Life - That Outward Existence Which Conforms, The Inward Life Which Questions.

But The Beginning Of Things, Of A World Especially, Is Necessarily Vague, Tangled, Chaotic, And Exceedingly Disturbing. How Few Of Us Ever Emerge From Such Beginning! How Many Souls Perish In Its Tumult!

There Were Days When She Was Unhappy, She Did Not Know Why,--when It Did Not Seem Worthwhile To Be Glad Or Sorry, To Be Alive Or Dead; When Life Appeared To Her Like A Grotesque Pandemonium And Humanity Like Worms Struggling Blindly Toward Inevitable Annihilation.

It Was Still Quite Light Out Of Doors, But Inside With The Curtains Drawn And The Smouldering Fire Sending Out A Dim, Uncertain Glow, The Room Was Full Of Deep Shadows.

Madame Ratignolle Hoped That Robert Would Exercise Extreme Caution In Dealing With The Mexicans, Who, She Considered, Were A Treacherous People, Unscrupulous And Revengeful. She Trusted She Did Them No Injustice In Thus Condemning Them As A Race. She Had Known Personally But One Mexican, Who Made And Sold Excellent Tamales, And Whom She Would Have Trusted Implicitly, So Soft-spoken Was He. One Day He Was Arrested For Stabbing His Wife. She Never Knew Whether He Had Been Hanged Or Not.

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-

He Could See Plainly That She Was Not Herself. That Is, He Could Not See That She Was Becoming Herself And Daily Casting Aside That Fictitious Self Which We Assume Like A Garment With Which To Appear Before The World.

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.

A Bird With A Broken Wing Was Beating The Air Above, Reeling, Fluttering, Circling Disabled, Down, Down To The Water

She Was Still Under The Spell Of Her Infatuation. She Had Tried To Forget Him, Realizing The Inutility Of Remembering. But The Thought Of Him Was Like An Obsession, Ever Pressing Itself Upon Her. It Was Not That She Dwelt Upon Details Of Their Acquaintance, Or Recalled In Any Special Or Peculiar Way His Personality; It Was His Being, His Existence, Which Dominated Her Thought, Fading Sometimes As If It Would Melt Into The Mist Of The Forgotten, Reviving Again With An Intensity Which Filled Her With An Incomprehensible Longing.

The Past Was Nothing To Her; Offered No Lesson Which She Was Willing To Heed. The Future Was A Mystery Which She Never Attempted To Penetrate. The Present Alone Was Significant.

She Felt Like A Chess Player Who, By The Clever Handling Of His Pieces, Sees The Game Taking The Course Intended. Her Eyes Were Bright And Tender With A Smile As They Glanced Up Into His; And Her Lips Looked Hungry For The Kiss Which They Invited.

I Don't Mind Walking. I Always Feel So Sorry For Women Who Don't Like To Walk; They Miss So Much--so Many Rare Little Glimpses Of Life; And We Women Learn So Little Of Life On The Whole.

It Was Not Despair, But It Seemed To Her As If Life Were Passing By, Leaving Its Promises Broken And Unfulfilled. Yet There Were Other Days When She Listened, Was Led On And Deceived By Fresh Promises Which Her Youth Had Held Out To Her.

I'm Tired," She Uttered Complainingly. "i Know You Are." "you Don't Know Anything About It. Why Should You Know? I Never Was So Exhausted In My Life. But It Isn't Unpleasant. A Thousand Emotions Have Swept Through Me To-night. I Don't Comprehend Half On Them. Don't Mind What I'm Saying; I Am Just Thinking Aloud.

The Delicious Breath Of Rain Was In The Air.

The Bird That Would Soar Above The Level Plain Of Tradition And Prejudice Must Have Strong Wings. It Is A Sad Spectacle To See The Weaklings Bruised, Exhausted, Fluttering Back To Earth.

In The Procession I Should Feel The Crushing Feet, The Clashing Discords, The Ruthless Hands And Stifling Breath. I Could Not Hear The Rhythm Of The March.

But Whatever Came, She Had Resolved Never Again To Belong To Another Than Herself.

Inspirational Life

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 Was Flushed And Felt Intoxicated With The Sound Of Her Own Voice And The Unaccustomed Taste Of Candor. It Muddled Her Like Wine, Or Like A First Breath Of Freedom.

Some People Are Born With A Vital And Responsive Energy. It Not Only Enables Them To Keep Abreast Of The Times; It Qualifies Them To Furnish In Their Own Personality A Good Bit Of The Motive Power To The Mad Pace.

So The Storm Passed And Every One Was Happy.

I Trust It Will Not Be Giving Away Professional Secrets To Say That Many Readers Would Be Surprised, Perhaps Shocked, At The Questions Which Some Newspaper Editors Will Put To A Defenseless Woman Under The Guise Of Flattery.

A Certain Light Was Beginning To Dawn Dimly Within Her,—the Light Which, Showing The Way, Forbids It.

I Should Never Deem A Man Of Ordinary Caliber Worthy Of My Devotion.

We Shall Be Everything To Each Other. Nothing Else In The World Is Of Any Consequence.

The Voice Of The Sea Speaks To The Soul.

Well, For Instance, When I Left Her Today, She Put Her Arms Around Me And Felt My Shoulder Blades, To See If My Wings Were Strong, She Said.

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.

Do You Suppose A Woman Knows Why She Loves? Does She Select? Does She Say To Herself, 'go To! Here Is A Distinguished Statesman With Presidential Possibilities; I Shall Proceed To Fall In Love With Him.' Or, 'i Shall Set My Heart Upon This Musician, Whose Fame Is On Every Tongue?' Or 'this Financier, Who Controls The World's Money Markets?'

Falling In Love

She Wanted Something To Happen - Something, Anything: She Did Not Know What.

I'm Going To Pull Myself Together For A While And Think-try To Determine What Character Of A Woman I Am; For, Candidly, I Don't Know. By All The Codes Which I Am Acquainted With, I Am A Devilishly Wicked Specimen Of The Sex. But Some Way I Can't Convince Myself That I Am. I Must Think About It.

No, I Only Think You Cruel, As I Said The Other Day. Maybe Not Intentionally Cruel; But You Seem To Be Forcing Me Into Disclosures Which Can Result In Nothing; As If You Would Have Me Bare A Wound For The Pleasure Of Looking At It, Without The Intention Or Power Of Healing It.

The Generous Abundance Of Her Passion, Without Guile Or Trickery, Was Like A White Flame Which Penetrated And Found Response In Depths Of His Own Sensuous Nature That Had Never Yet Been Reached.

One Who Awakens Gradually Out Of A Dream, A Delicious, Grotesque, Impossible Dream, To Feel Again The Realities Pressing Into Her Soul

She's Got Some Sort Of Notion In Her Head Concerning The Eternal Rights Of Women.

Perhaps It Is Better To Wake Up After All, Even To Suffer, Rather Than To Remain A Dupe To Illusions All One's Life.

The Way To Become Rich Is To Make Money, Not To Save It.

I Dance With People I Despise; Amuse Myself With Men Whose Only Talent Lies In Their Feet, Gain The Disapprobation Of People I Honor And Respect; Return Home At Day Break With My Brain In A State Which Was Never Intended For It; And Arise In The Middle Of The Next Day Feeling Infinitely More, In Spirit And Flesh Like A Liliputian, Than A Woman With Body And Soul. Entry (when She Was Eighteen) In Her Commonplace Book, 1868-1869.

I Would Give Up The Unessential; I Would Give My Money, I Would Give My Life For My Children; But I Wouldn't Give Myself.

The Mother-women Seemed To Prevail That Summer At Grand Isle. It Was Easy To Know Them, Fluttering About With Extended, Protecting Wings When Any Harm, Real Or Imaginary, Threatened Their Precious Brood. They Were Women Who Idolized Their Children, Worshiped Their Husbands, And Esteemed It A Holy Privilege To Efface Themselves As Individuals And Grow Wings As Ministering Angels.

Trending Author

Henepola Gunaratana

Taraji P. Henson

Category