And no, I do not thus comment on Miss Lily Walker. I have an appreciative pleasure in her charm and suppleness and bird-and-butterfly prettiness. But after a bit of contemplation and analysis of her surface I deduce the unconscious struggle it may be for Miss Lily Walker to be supple on nights when she does not feel supple, the thin agony of being sweet when she does not feel sweet, the neurotic torture of being seductive _regularly_--by the night: the more that perchance the struggle always _is_ unconscious. Her brain being required in her body it’s to be assumed there’s none in her head. But I can deduce a nervous red heart beating illogically somewhere in her being protesting dumbly sometimes against one irking item, sometimes against another, sometimes against all the items in Miss Lily Walker’s scheme of life, but beating and beating on, like a little automatic drum wound up tight and tossed into a maelstrom to beat itself out. I’d like--like with breathless eagerness--to read the analyzed being just beneath Miss Lily Walker’s skin. Everybody--every human being--is wildly _Real_: radiant and desolate.-- With no amount of temperamental struggling could Miss Lily Walker analyze a psychic emotion of her own and then find the right word-combination to write it in. With no conceivable effort of mine could I manage to be supple when I do not feel supple. So Miss Lily Walker and I are quits at this game. It totals up evenly, all ways around. Nobody gets through one Real day--though it be a dayful of Real lies--without a demoniacal struggle of soul or a heavy blow on the personal solar plexus. And I make not even the intellect side of this book, which is a Realness to me, without sweet fine sweatings of blood. _Instinct--a ‘first law’_ To-morrow I long to do a Murder. Despite my futile way-of-life and my rotting destroying half-acquiescence in it I have a furious positive Murder in me. One near me in my daily life injures me and goes on injuring me in a way which is scourging and malicious and intensely petty. There is in it helpless humiliation for me--me self-loving, proud and determinedly unsuppliant--and it makes maddening Murder rise in me. I don’t know why I do not do the Murder. I have nothing to lose by paying the law-penalty: nothing but my life, and my life is stripped bare--and was always barren by God’s decree--of all that makes a life sacred or lovely or precious. For long years and years, since child-days, I have been lost. I don’t know why I do not do the Murder: except that I think of it and brood over it and turn it round and round smoulderingly in my Mind. From no choice. I have tried to push the feeling away as a common thing beneath me. It is beneath me, for I am not little but someway big. But my Mind will take its toll of all that confronts me.