What else is there for me, if not this book?
And, oh, that some one may understand it!
--I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not
generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate
_feeling_. I feel--everything. It is my genius. It burns me like
fire.--
My Portrayal in its analysis and egotism and bitterness will
surely be of interest to some. Whether to that one alone who may
understand it; or to some who have themselves been left alone; or
to those three whom I, on three dreary days, asked for bread, and
who each gave me a stone--and whom I do not forgive (for that is
the bitterest thing of all): it may be to all of these.
But none of them, nor any one, can know the feeling made of relief
and pain and despair that comes over me at the thought of sending
all this to the wise wide world. It is bits of my wooden heart
broken off and given away. It is strings of amber beads taken from
the fair neck of my soul. It is shining little gold coins from out
of my mind’s red leather purse. It is my little old life-tragedy.
It means everything to me.
Do you see?--it means _everything_ to me.
It will amuse you. It will arouse your interest. It will stir your
curiosity. Some sorts of persons will find it ridiculous. It will
puzzle you.
But am I to suppose that it will also awaken compassion in cool,
indifferent hearts? And will the sand and barrenness look so
unspeakably gray and dreary to coldly critical eyes as to mine?
And shall my bitter little story fall easily and comfortably upon
undisturbed ears, and linger for an hour, and be forgotten?
Will the wise wide world itself give me in my outstretched hand a
stone?