...the garden was feverless and without tension to match her tensions.
she could not unite or commune with the plants, the languor, the peace.
it was all contrary to her inward pulse. not one pulsation of the garden
corresponded to her inner pulsation which was more like a drum beating
a feverish time.
within her the leaves did not wait for autumn, but were torn off
prematurely by unexpected sorrows. within her, leaves did not wait for
spring to sprout but bloomed in sudden hothouse exaggerations...
...this exaggerated sense, for instance, of a preparation for the
love
to come, like the extension of canopies, the unrolling of
ceremonial
carpets...
as if she must first of all create a marvelous world in which to house
it...
...she was like a perpetual bride preparing a trousseau. as other
women sew and embroider, or curl their hair, she embellished her cities
of the interior, painted, decorated, prepared a great mise en scene for
a great love...
-anais nin, "children of the albatross"