she did not know–or rather, did not believe–what it was like to be a human being. She was one, intermittently, but while she wasn’t she did not remember what it had felt like to be one; and her worse self distrusted her better too thoroughly to give it much share, ever, in what she said or wrote.

As a writer Gertrude had one fault more radical than all the rest: she did not know–or rather, did not believe–what it was like to be a human being. She was one, intermittently, but while she wasn’t she did not remember what it had felt like to be one; and her worse self distrusted her better too thoroughly to give it much share, ever, in what she said or wrote.