I seldom go out. I am no longer moved by the beauty of things. Or to
speak more truly, the more pleasurable and splendid aspects of nature
give me pain. All day long I sully sheet after sheet of paper and
beguile the tedious hours with the half-faded recollections of my
childhood. What I am writing will be burned. I should be ashamed that
pages, tear-stained and dream-haunted, should fall beneath the eyes
of grave, sober-minded folk. What would they see in them? Naught but
childish faces.
[Illustration: 078]