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When lovely woman stoops to folly and paces about her room again, alone, she smooths her hair with automatic hand, and puts a record on the gramophone.
-T. S. Eliot
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When Lovely Woman Stoops To Folly And

T. S. Eliot
When lovely woman stoops to folly and paces about her room again, alone, she smooths her hair with automatic hand, and puts a record on the gramophone.
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Hair Hands Lovely

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Strip back the beliefs pasted on by governesses, schools, and states, you find indelible truths at one's core. rome'll decline and fall again, cortés'll lay tenochtitlán to waste again, and later, ewing will sail again, adrian'll be blown to pieces again, you and i'll sleep under the corsican stars again, i'll come to bruges again, fall in and out of love with eva again, you'll read this letter again, the sun'll grow cold again. nietzsche's gramophone record. when it ends, the old one plays it again, for an eternity of eternities.
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I'll walk you back,"he said with such apparently boundless amiability that diana wanted to deck him. "that isn't necessary," she began as her hand was clasped by his. "i suppose i could walk ten paces behind or ten paces in front." as she let out a frustrated breath, caine grinned down at her. "you're not angry because we exchanged a friendly kiss? after all, we're family." "there was nothing friendly or familial about it," diana muttered. "no," he lifted her hand to his lips, then lightly nipped at her knuckle. "maybe we should try again.
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When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy, what art can wash her guilt away?
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From woman, man is born; within woman, man is conceived; to woman he is engaged and married. woman becomes his friend; through woman, the future generations come. when his woman dies, he seeks another woman; to woman he is bound. so why call her bad? from her, kings are born. from woman, woman is born; without woman, there would be no one at all.
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A woman is never so happy as when she is being wooed. then she is mistress of all she surveys, the cynosure of all eyes, until that day of days when she sails down the aisle, a vision in white, lovely as the stefanotis she carries, borne translucent on her father's manly arm to be handed over to her new father-surrogate. if she is clever, and if her husband has the time and the resources, she will insist on being wooed all her life; more likely she will discover that marriage is not romantic, that husbands forget birthdays and aniversaries and seldom pay compliments, are often perfunctory.
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She was made up of more, too. she was the books she read in the library. she was the flower in the brown bowl. part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. she was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. she was katie's secret, despairing weeping. she was the shame of her father stumbling home drunk. she was all of these things and of something more...it was what god or whatever is his equivalent puts into each soul that is given life - the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.
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