This book is not to be mistaken for an apology. Not at all.
If I have lived fully and richly I thank God for it. My only regrets are for the things that I have not done and for the experiences I have not had. Also for the people I have not known.
I believe absolutely that living, in the completest sense of that word . . . discovering the full beauty of living and plunging one’s self utterly into the human beings that swarm through this life . . . is a pure art. It is, I honestly think, the highest artistic accomplishment we can hope for. All the recognised arts. . . your paintings, your sculpture, your music, your books . . . all those things are only the symbols of that higher art: living.
I have been accused of living adventurously. Let us admit the word. But I have never been an “adventuress.” If I have never cared about your man-made conventions (and every modern school-girl would laugh at those of my day), I was not immoral, but un-moral. If I have often loved, I have at least loved well and fully. I have nothing to be ashamed of, in spite of the scandalous press reports that hopeful reporters managed to use to amuse a scandal-loving public. And if I have dared to stick my nose into trouble just because the game was fun, does it make me a brazen hussy?
No, this is not an apology.
It is the recollections of a woman who is no longer young and who has crowded a great deal of movement and fun and action and love and adventure into a lifetime now drawing towards its close.
And if I could live it again, this very long life of mine, I would love to do so. And the only difference would be that I would try to crowd in still more ... more places, more things, more women, more men, more love, more excitement.
Let the Mrs. Grundys arch their eyebrows and reach for their smelling salts.
If I have lived fully and richly I thank God for it. My only regrets are for the things that I have not done and for the experiences I have not had. Also for the people I have not known.
I believe absolutely that living, in the completest sense of that word . . . discovering the full beauty of living and plunging one’s self utterly into the human beings that swarm through this life . . . is a pure art. It is, I honestly think, the highest artistic accomplishment we can hope for. All the recognised arts. . . your paintings, your sculpture, your music, your books . . . all those things are only the symbols of that higher art: living.
I have been accused of living adventurously. Let us admit the word. But I have never been an “adventuress.” If I have never cared about your man-made conventions (and every modern school-girl would laugh at those of my day), I was not immoral, but un-moral. If I have often loved, I have at least loved well and fully. I have nothing to be ashamed of, in spite of the scandalous press reports that hopeful reporters managed to use to amuse a scandal-loving public. And if I have dared to stick my nose into trouble just because the game was fun, does it make me a brazen hussy?
No, this is not an apology.
It is the recollections of a woman who is no longer young and who has crowded a great deal of movement and fun and action and love and adventure into a lifetime now drawing towards its close.
And if I could live it again, this very long life of mine, I would love to do so. And the only difference would be that I would try to crowd in still more ... more places, more things, more women, more men, more love, more excitement.
Let the Mrs. Grundys arch their eyebrows and reach for their smelling salts.
