I have had, among other things, fine, rare-broiled porterhouse steak
from Omaha, and some fresh, green young onions from California. And
just now I am a philosopher, pure and simple--except that there’s
nothing very pure about my philosophy, nor yet very simple.
Let the Devil come and go; let the wild waters rush over me; let
nations rise and fall; let my favorite theories form themselves
in line suddenly and run into the ground; let the little earth be
bandied about from one belief to another; but, I say in the midst
of my young peripatetic philosophy, I need not be in complete
despair--the world still contains things for me, while I have my
fine rare porterhouse steak from Omaha--and my fresh green young
onions from California.
Fame may pass over my head; money may escape me; my one friend may
fail me; every hope may fold its tent and steal away; Happiness may
remain a sealed book; every remnant of human ties may vanish; I may
find myself an outcast; good things held out to me may suddenly be
withdrawn; the stars may go out, one by one; the sun may go dark;
yet still I may hold upright my head, if I have but my steak--and
my onions.
I may find myself crowded out from many charmed circles; I may find
the ethical world too small to contain me; the social world may also
exclude me; the professional world may know me not; likewise the
worlds of the arts and the sciences; I may find myself superfluous
in literary haunts; I may see myself going gladly back to the
vile dust from whence I sprung--to live in a green forest like
the melancholy Jacques; but fare they well, I will say with what
cheerfulness I can summon, while I have my steak--and my onions.
Possibly I may grow old and decrepit; my hair may turn gray; my
bones may become rheumatic; I may grow weak in the knees; my
ankle-joints which have withstood many a peripatetic journey may
develop dropsical tendencies; my heart may miss a beat now and
then; my lungs may begin to fight shy of wintry blasts; my eyes may
fail me; my figure that is now in its slim gracefulness may swathe
itself in layers of flesh, or worse, it may wither and decay and
stoop at the shoulders; my red blood may flow sluggishly; but if I
still have left teeth to eat with, why need I lament while I have
my steak--and my onions?
I am obscure; I am morbid; I am unhappy; my life is made up of
Nothingness; I want everything and I have nothing; I have been
made to feel the “lure of green things growing,” and I have been
made to feel also that something of them is withheld from me; I
have felt the deadly tiredness that is among the birthrights of a
human being; but with it all the Devil has given me a philosophy of
my own--the Devil has enabled me to count, if need be, the world
well lost for a fine rare porterhouse steak--and some green young
onions.
For which I thank thee, Devil, profoundly.
Who says the Devil is not your friend? Who says the Devil does not
believe in the all-merciful Law of Compensation?
And so it is--do you see?--that all things look different after
a satisfying dinner, that the color of the world changes, that
life in fact resolves itself into two things: a fine rare-broiled
porterhouse steak from Omaha, and some fresh green young onions
from California.
January 24.
I am charmingly original. I am delightfully refreshing. I am
startlingly Bohemian. I am quaintly interesting--the while in my
sleeve I may be smiling and smiling--and a villain. I can talk to a
roomful of dull people and compel their interest, admiration, and
astonishment. I do this sometimes for my own amusement. As I have
said, I am a rather plain-featured, insignificant-looking genius,
but I have a graceful personality. I have a pretty figure. I am
well set up. And when I choose to talk in my charmingly original
fashion, embellishing my conversation with many quaint lies, I have
a certain very noticeable way with me, an “air.”
It is well, if one has nothing else, to acquire an air. And an air
taken in conjunction with my charming originality, my delightfully
refreshing candor, is something powerful and striking in its way.
I do not, however, exert myself often in this way; partly because
I can sometimes foresee, from the character of the assembled
company, that my performance will not have the desired effect--for
I am a genius, and genius at close range at times carries itself
unconsciously to the point where it becomes so interesting that it
is atrocious, and can not be carried farther without having somewhat
mildly disastrous results; and then, again, the facial antics of
some ten or a dozen persons possessed more or less of the qualities
of the genus fool--even they become tiresome after a while.
Always I talk about myself on an occasion of this kind. Indeed, my
conversation is on all occasions devoted directly or indirectly to
myself.
When I talk on the subject of ethics, I talk of it as it is related
to Mary MacLane.
When I give out broad-minded opinions about Ninon de l’Enclos, I
demonstrate her relative position to Mary MacLane!
When I discourse liberally on the subject of the married relation,
I talk of it only as it will affect Mary MacLane.
An interesting creature, Mary MacLane.
As a matter of fact, it is so with every one, only every one is
far from realizing and acknowledging it. And I have not lacked
listeners, though these people do not appreciate me. They do not
realize that I am a genius.
I am of womankind and of nineteen years. I am able to stand off
and gaze critically and dispassionately at myself and my relation
to my environment, to the world, to everything the world contains.
I am able to judge whether I am good and whether I am bad. I am
able, indeed, to tell what I am and where I stand. I can see far,
far inward. I am a genius.
Charlotte Bronté did this in some degree, and she was a genius;
and also Marie Bashkirtseff, and Olive Schreiner, and George Eliot.
They are all geniuses.
And so, then, I am a genius--a genius in my own right.
I am fundamentally, organically egotistic. My vanity and self-conceit
have attained truly remarkable development as I’ve walked and
walked in the loneliness of the sand and barrenness. Not the
least remarkable part of it is that I know my egotism and vanity
thoroughly--thoroughly, and plume myself thereon.
These are the ear-marks of a genius--and of a fool. There is a
finely-drawn line between a genius and a fool. Often this line is
overstepped and your fool becomes a genius, or your genius becomes
a fool.
It is but a tiny step.
There’s but a tiny step between the great and the little, the
tender and the contemptuous, the sublime and the ridiculous, the
aggressive and the humble, the paradise and the perdition.
And so is it between the genius and the fool.