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Who is to decide between 'Let it be' and 'Force it'?

Katherine Mansfield

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Katherine Mansfield
Age: 34 †
Born: 1888
Born: October 14
Died: 1923
Died: January 9
Diarist
Poet
Writer
Wellington
New Zealand
Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry
Kathleen Murry
Katherine Beauchamp Mansfield
Kathleen Mansfield Murry
Decide
Force

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Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.
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What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.
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I want, by understanding myself, to understand others. I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.... This all sounds very strenuous and serious. But now that I have wrestled with it, it's no longer so. I feel happy- deep down. All is well.
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That's all life is - something childish and very natural. Isn't it?
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Can one do nothing for the dead? And for a long time the answer had been - Nothing!
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Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.
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I feel I must live alone, alone, alone - with artists only to touch the door. Every artist cuts off his ear and nails it on the outside of the door for the others to shout into.
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Everything in life that we really accept undergoes a change.
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I love the night. I love to feel the tide of darkness rising, slowly and slowly washing, turning over and over, lifting, floating, all that lies strewn upon the dark beach, all that lies hid in rocky hollows.
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Warm, eager, living life-to be rooted in life-to learn, to desire, to know, to feel, to think, to act. This is what I want. And nothing less. That is what I must try for.
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Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.
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Now's the time when children's noses All become as red as roses And the colour of their faces Makes me think of orchard places Where the juicy apples grow, And tomatoes in a row.
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The late evening is the time of times. Then with that unearthly beauty before one it is not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light.
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The truth is that every true admirer of the novels cherishes the happy thought that he alone - reading between the lines - has bcome the secret friend of their author.
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There is no feeling to be compared with the feeling of having written and finished a story.
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What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss - absolute bliss - as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle into every finger and toe?
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The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it.
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It's a terrible thing to be alone - yes it is - it is - but don't lower your mask until you have another mask prepared beneath - as terrible as you like - but a mask.
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if one really does try to find out why it is that people don't leave each other, one discovers a mystery. It is because they can't they are bound. And nobody on earth knows what are the bonds that bind them except those two.
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September is different from all other months. It is more magical. I feel the strange chemical change in the earth which produces mushrooms is the cause, too, of the extra 'life' in the air - a resilience, a sparkle.
Katherine Mansfield