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You may think me crude, and probably i am crude, but i am not so crude as i was, for i am clever enough to see that the girl of nineteen who thought herself a genius was only an unusual girl writing her heart out.

-Mary MacLane

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You May Think Me Crude, And Probably

Mary MacLane

You may think me crude, and probably i am crude, but i am not so crude as i was, for i am clever enough to see that the girl of nineteen who thought herself a genius was only an unusual girl writing her heart out.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"you may think me crude, and probably i am crude, but i am not so crude as i was, for i am clever enough to see that the girl of nineteen who thought herself a genius was only an unusual girl writing her heart out."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Mary MacLane</footer>
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Topic

Girl Clever Writing

More From Mary MacLane

There are so few people given us to love. i want to tell my daughters this, that each time you fall in love it is important, even at nineteen. especially at nineteen. and if you can, at nineteen, count the people you love on one hand, you will not, at forty, have run out of fingers on the other. there are so few people given us to love and they all stick.

In nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn; color your hair; watch a third of a hockey game. in nineteen minutes, you can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist; you can fold laundry for a family of five. in nineteen minutes, you can stop the world; or you can just jump off it.

They'd had fun, for sure. they laughed and enjoyed being together. but if she was painfully honest with herself, something was missing. something in the way tim looked at her. she remembered her mom's word. "i saw the way he looked at you...he adores you." maybe that was it. tim looked at her on a surface level. he smiled and seemed happy to see her. but when cody looked at her, there were no layers left, nothing her didn't reveal, nothing he couldn't see. he didn't really look at her so much as he looked into her. to the deepest, most real places in her heart and soul.

Perhaps i will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. if she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief. her body would lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who had betrayed her. sansa went so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters ... but then her courage left her, and she ran back to her bed, sobbing.

This was her, mick kelly, walking in the daytime and by herself at night. in the hot sun and in the dark with all the plans and feelings. this music was her—the real plain her...this music did not take a long time or a short time. it did not have anything to do with time going by at all. she sat with her arms around her legs, biting her salty knee very hard. the whole world was this symphony, and there was not enough of her to listen... now that it was over there was only her heart beating like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.

Somebody/ anybody sing a black girl's song bring her out to know herself to know you but sing her rhythms carin/ struggle/ hard times sing her song of life she's been dead so long closed in silence so long she doesn't know the sound of her own voice her infinite beauty she's half-notes scattered without rhythm/ no tune sing her sighs sing the song of her possibilities sing a righteous gospel let her be born let her be born & handled warmly.

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