Yet I know my feeling is not the feeling of forty years. These are
the feelings of miserable, wretched youth.
Every day the atmosphere of a house becomes unbearable, so every
day I go out to the sand and barrenness. It is not cold, neither
is it mild. It is gloomy.
I sit for two hours on the ground by the side of a pitiably small
narrow stream of water. It is not even a natural stream. I dare
say it comes from some mine among the hills. But it is well enough
that the stream is not natural--when you consider the sand and
barrenness. It is singularly appropriate.
And I am singularly appropriate to all of them. It is good, after
all, to be appropriate to something--to be in touch with something,
even sand and barrenness. The sand and barrenness is old--oh, very
old. You think of this when you look at it.
What should I do if the earth were made of wood, with a paper sky!