am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where I walk
there are thorns.'

Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my
lot, and that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will
be to write sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R- will
be waiting for me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate,
and he is the symbol, not merely of his own affection, but of the
affection of many others besides. I believe I am to have enough to
live on for about eighteen months at any rate, so that if I may not
write beautiful books, I may at least read beautiful books; and
what joy can be greater? After that, I hope to be able to recreate
my creative faculty.

But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world;
were there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept
the wallet and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free
from all resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face
the life with much more calm and confidence than I would were my
body in purple and fine linen, and the soul within me sick with
hate.

And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love
you will find it waiting for you.

I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be
comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I
have hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass
through. And I have to get it all out of myself. Neither
religion, morality, nor reason can help me at all.