"I have been loved," she said, "by something strange, and it has forgotten me."

She sometimes felt she had been cursed, as if by some malevolent goddess in a Greek myth, to lose everyone she ever loved.

She always had been in touch with something outside of human ken. She had something in her no other human had. You sensed it, but you could not name it, for there was no name for this thing she had. And she had fumbled with it, trying to use it, not knowing how to use it, charming off the warts and healing poor hurt butterflies and only God knew what other acts that she performed unseen.

for she was invaded by a kind of love which every girl has gone through — the love of the unknown, love in its vaguest form,

She's forgotten too, that woman who sprang from filth, from vermin, from treachery and infidelity.

I don't think she ever knew that a deep-brooding love hung over everything she touched.

It was something like love
From another world that seized her
From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head
Out of dew, without ever looking, her best
Self to that great need.

"...she had regained what I thought she had lost forever, the magical sadness which had drawn me to her, the thwarted look that had seemed to say, "Surely I was made for some other purpose than this?

She has forgotten speech and language and the restlessness of thoughts, has forgotten what is even greater restlessness, this self, has forgotten herself-she, the lost woman, who is now lost in her Savior, who, lost in him, rests at his feet-like a picture. He speaks about her; he says: Her many sins are forgiven her, because she loved much. Although she is present, it is almost as if she were absent; it is almost as if he changed her into a picture, a parable.

She is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.

Love so sprang at her, she honestly thought no one had ever looked into it. Where was it in literature? Someone would have written something. She must not have recognized it. Time to read everything again.

That Woman is in love with her own grief.

I Have Vanished In the early morning, A lover asked her beloved, “Do you love me more than yourself?” “More than myself? For sure I have no self any more — I am you already. The ‘I’ has gone; the ‘you’ has come about. Even my identity is gone. The answer is taken for granted. ‘You and I’ has no meaning. The ‘I’ has vanished like a drop into an ocean of honey.

She had seen no one who had so touched her. But she was alive to the romance of the thing, and was in love with the idea of being in love.