OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story… - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Meanwhile, we have at last sent our letter (Mazzini’s) to George Sand, accompanied with a little note signed by both of us, though written by me, as seemed right, being the woman. We half despaired in doing this, for it is most difficult, it appears, to get at her, she having taken vows against seeing strangers in consequence of various annoyances and persecutions in and out of print, which it’s the mere instinct of a woman to avoid. I can understand it perfectly. Also, she is in Paris for only a few days, and under a new name, to escape from the plague of her notoriety.

And I breathe large at home. I drop my cloak,
Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that ties
My hair...now could I but unloose my soul!
We are sepulchred alive in this close world,
And want more room.

We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book
And calculating profits - so much help
By so much rending. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth -
'Tis then we get the right good from a book.