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The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.

Kate Chopin

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Kate Chopin
Age: 54 †
Born: 1850
Born: February 8
Died: 1904
Died: August 22
Author
Novelist
Translator
Writer
St. Louis
Missouri
Katherine O'Flaherty
Voice
Awakened
Speak
Awakening
Nature
Shore
Soul
Speaks
Maritime
Beach
Seashore
Healing
Murmuring
Sea
Sensuous
Ocean
Seductive

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but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself.
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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.
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So the storm passed and every one was happy.
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There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night nor was there hope when she awoke in the morning.
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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.
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The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like a benediction.
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She wanted something to happen - something, anything: she did not know what.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light which, showing the way, forbids it.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.
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The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies
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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?'
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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.
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