I began to lose sleep. As the spring advanced, I found my room too small for my thoughts and I fell into the habit of slipping down the fire-escape and walking through the night. There was an old mill-race near the school and I used to pace up and down the dyke for hours. Just as with egg-stealing something pushed me into this and I worried very little about what would happen if I were found out. After many nights of meditation I put my conclusions down on paper. I have kept the soiled and wrinkled sheet, written over in a scragly boyish hand, ever since. First of all there were the two propositions "There is a God," "There is no God." If there is a God, He might be either a personal Jehovah, such as the Father believed in, or an impersonal Deity like that of the theists. These were all the possibilities I could think of. And in regard to these propositions, I wrote the following: "I cannot find any proof of a personal God. It would take strong evidence to make me believe in such a cruel being. How could an all-powerful God, who cared, leave His children in ignorance? There are many grown-up men who think they know what the Bible means. They have burned each other at the stake—Catholics and Protestants—they would kill each other still, if there were not laws against it. A personal God would not let his followers fight about his meaning. He would speak clearly. If he could and did not, he would be a scoundrel. I would hate such a God. But there are no good arguments for a personal God. "An impersonal God would be no better than no God. He would not care about men. Such a God could not give us any law. Every person would have to find out for himself what was right. "If there is no God, it is the same as if there was an impersonal God. "Therefore man has no divine rule about what is good and bad. He must find out for himself. This experiment must be the aim of life—to find out what is good. I think that the best way to live would be so that the biggest number of people would be glad you did live." Such was my credo at eighteen. It has changed very little. I do not believe—in many things. My philosophy is still negative. And life seems to me now, as it did then, an experiment in ethics. My midnight walks by the mill-race were brought to an abrupt end. My speculations were interrupted by the doctor’s heavy hand falling on my shoulder. "What are you doing out of bed at this hour? Smoking?" I was utterly confused, seeing no outlet but disgrace. My very fright saved me. I could not collect my wits to lie. "Thinking about God," I said. The doctor let out a long whistle and sat down beside me. "Was that what gave you brain fever?" "Yes." "Well—tell me about it."