childhood.

The more I reflect upon life, the more clearly I see that I have not
laid out my talents to the best advantage. I have no sweet memories of
infidelity; I have lived irreproachably--and now I am very tired.

I sit here and write for myself alone. I know that no one else will ever
read my words; and yet I am not quite sincere, even with myself.

Life has passed me by; my hands are empty; now it is too late.

Once happiness knocked at my door, and I, poor fool, did not rise to
welcome it.

I envy every country wench or servant girl who goes off with a lover.
But I sit here waiting for old age.

Astrid Bagge.... As I write her name, I feel as though she were standing
weeping behind my back; I feel her tears dropping on my neck. I cannot
weep--but how I long for tears!

* * * * *

Autumn! Torp has made a huge fire of logs in the open grate. The burning
wood gives out an intoxicating perfume and fills the house with cosey
warmth. For want of something better to do I am looking after the fire
myself. I carefully strip the bark from each log before throwing it on
the flames. The smell of burning birch-bark goes to my head like strong
wine. Dreams come and go.