Since I am alone I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and
wish for none; and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because I
wish to be perfectly alone.

* * * * *

She who renounces the world, and in her loneliness still cherishes the
thought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden.

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that
join in the _chorale_ sustain each other; and when the tone at last
ceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But
here I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation,
confessor and penitent, all in one; and my heart is often _so_ heavy, as
if I must needs have another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and
carry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself
again, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and
alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me.

* * * * *

It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My
voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me
has become mute.

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be
well enough; but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet
where and what shall it be?