I give all my life to my work, and sometimes, when I am broken like this, I
wonder if I do not give too much. Once I climbed to a dizzy height, and I
cried out a dizzy truth:

"O God, how as nothing in Thy sight are my writings!"

I do not know if I shall ever reach that height again.

* * * * *

May 3d.

I have not one single beautiful memory in my life. I have nothing in my
life that, when I think of it, does not make me _writhe_.

To all that I have lived, and known, and seen, I have but one word, one
cry--Away! Away! Let me get away from it! Let me get away from cities, let
me get away from men, let me out of my cage! Let me go with my God, let
me forget it all--put it away forever and ever! Let me no longer have to
plot and plan, to cringe and whimper, to barter my vision and my hours for
bread!

Who knows what I suffer--who has any idea of it? To have a soul like a
burning fire, to be hungry and swift as the Autumn wind, to have a heart as
hot as the wild bird's, and wings as eager--and to be chained here in this
seething hell of selfishness, this orgy of folly.

* * * * *

Ah, and then I shut my hands together. No, I am not weak, I do not spend my