[Photograph: Author’s portrait] [Signature: Mary MacLane] I, MARY MACLANE _A DIARY OF HUMAN DAYS_ BY MARY MACLANE AUTHOR OF “THE STORY OF MARY MACLANE” [Illustration: Publisher’s logo] NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1917, by_ FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages._ _To M-- T--_ _these Live Fruits from the Withered Garden_ I, MARY MACLANE _A crucible of my own making_ To-day It is the edge of a somber July night in this Butte-Montana. The sky is overcast. The nearer mountains are gray-melancholy. And at this point I meet Me face to face. I am Mary MacLane: of no importance to the wide bright world and dearly and damnably important to Me. Face to face I look at Me with some hatred, with despair and with great intentness. I put Me in a crucible of my own making and set it in the flaming trivial Inferno of my mind. And I assay thus: I am rare--I am in some ways exquisite. I am pagan within and without. I am vain and shallow and false. I am a specialized being, deeply myself. I am of woman-sex and most things that go with that, with some other _pointes_. I am dynamic but devasted, laid waste in spirit. I’m like a leopard and I’m like a poet and I’m like a religieuse and I’m like an outlaw. I have a potent weird sense of humor--a saving and a demoralizing grace. I have brain, cerebration--not powerful but fine and of a remarkable quality. I am scornful-tempered and I am brave. I am slender in body and someway fragile and firm-fleshed and sweet. I am oddly a fool and a strange complex liar and a spiritual vagabond. I am strong, individual in my falseness: wavering, faint, fanciful in my truth. I am eternally self-conscious but sincere in it. I am ultra-modern, very old-fashioned: savagely incongruous. I am young, but not very young. I am wistful--I am infamous. In brief, I am a human being. I am presciently and analytically egotistic, with some arresting dead-feeling genius. And were I not so tensely tiredly sane I would say that I am mad. So assayed I begin to write this book of myself, to show to myself in detail the woman who is inside me. It may or it mayn’t show also a type, a universal Eve-old woman. If it is so it is not my purport. I sing only the Ego and the individual. So does in secret each man and woman and child who breathes, but is afraid to sing it aloud. And mostly none knows it is that he does sing. But it is the only strength of each. A bishop serving truly and tirelessly the poor of his diocese serves a strong vanity and ideal of the Ego in himself. A starving sculptor who lives in and for his own dreams is an Egotist equally with the bishop. And both are Egotists equally with me. Egotist, not egoist, is my word: it and not the idealized one is the ‘winged word.’