But always I know Weakness of me will find ways to work at its losing trade. It is of the dubious inevitable side of human nature--like gold teeth and tinned salmon and bastard lacy valentines. _Sweet fine sweatings of blood_ To-morrow Merely from the view-point of outward intellect this book of myself is oddly difficult to write. My most-loved thing to do and my hardest thing to do is to write. It is hard to catch and hold with mental fingers one’s own emotions and then doubly hard to write them. A feeling is something without the words and without even the thought. To put it into the thought and then into the words is a minuter task than would be the translating of a François-Villon poem into Choctaw. It’s a knowing person who realizes her own emotions and a knowinger who recognizes what is what, who is who, which is which among them. I look inward at Me and I see an emotion of World-Weariness and want to write it. I write it as nearly as I can. But when I have done--it’s not World-Weariness that I wrote but its twin-sister, Boredom-of-the-Moment, which happened to be next the other when I looked. I am glad to have transcribed Boredom-of-the-Moment. It is the finer and thinner and more elusive of the two. But how and why did I fail of World-Weariness? But sometime when I aim at Fear or Resentment or Surprise it may be World-Weariness I’ll bring down unexpectedly with a clean wing-shot. When I set out to write the Look-in-my-Eyes it may be the Feel-of-my-Fingers that comes out in my round writing. Another time I think I’m writing my Bad-Tooth: until I get it written when it turns out to be my little Eye-Wrinkles.