My bed was a thin and rotten tick of straw spread on the cell floor. One
thin and filthy blanket constituted the covering. There was no chair, no
table--nothing but the tick of straw and the thin, aged blanket. I was
ever a short sleeper and ever a busy-brained man. In solitary one grows
sick of oneself in his thoughts, and the only way to escape oneself is to
sleep. For years I had averaged five hours' sleep a night. I now
cultivated sleep. I made a science of it. I became able to sleep ten
hours, then twelve hours, and, at last, as high as fourteen and fifteen
hours out of the twenty-four. But beyond that I could not go, and,
perforce, was compelled to lie awake and think and think. And that way,
for an active-brained man, lay madness.

I sought devices to enable me mechanically to abide my waking hours. I
squared and cubed long series of numbers, and by concentration and will
carried on most astonishing geometric progressions. I even dallied with
the squaring of the circle . . . until I found myself beginning to
believe that that possibility could be accomplished. Whereupon,
realizing that there, too, lay madness, I forwent the squaring of the
circle, although I assure you it required a considerable sacrifice on my
part, for the mental exercise involved was a splendid time-killer.

By sheer visualization under my eyelids I constructed chess-boards and
played both sides of long games through to checkmate. But when I had
become expert at this visualized game of memory the exercise palled on
me. Exercise it was, for there could be no real contest when the same
player played both sides. I tried, and tried vainly, to split my
personality into two personalities and to pit one against the other. But
ever I remained the one player, with no planned ruse or strategy on one
side that the other side did not immediately apprehend.