For some months now I have lived with my own youth and childhood, not
always writing indeed but thinking of it almost every day, and I am
sorrowful and disturbed. It is not that I have accomplished too few of my
plans, for I am not ambitious; but when I think of all the books I have
read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have
given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all
life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for
something that never happens.
Printed in the United States of America.