And it is what-should-I-do if I had not a writing talent to expend me upon from day to day, and so rest me. I feel God around some corner but that feeling is no rest, but only an odd terror which wants the dignity of terror. Times I wonder if I shall have this published afterward for all to read and if so what colors it will paint on my world--and what else may befall. But it’s an aspect dim and remote now. I wearing but two nunlike dresses and face to face with me, have nothing to do with publishing books and with the beautiful noisy world and its befallings. It is easy to believe I shall never again have to do with any of that. This may be my death-mood. I am very tired. The weight of being a person is heavy on me as weights of lead. And still I know if I suddenly bloomed with beautiful frocks and went out to-morrow to lose myself among people, people, people I should at once achieve a veneer of the utmost frivol. I have an odd frivolous quality full of an ardor and strength, with all of my mental mettle in it. Also I know if I did that now it would be but postponing this analytic reckoning. Which would confront me again with the more rancor, the more futileness gathered into it from having been put off. This book and the two dresses are my present portion. If I could escape them (I am not quite sure I want to--but--_hell!_)--it would be of no use. They would come back again in an unexpected ripeness of time and demand a hearing: an exquisite nervous tragic hearing. They are such stuff as the conscious analyst is made of. But though I’m the conscious analyst I can’t quite tell whether I write the book because I wear two plain black dresses or I wear those because I write it. _Eye when I mean tooth_ To-morrow I write it, and it’s a surprising book. It is not what on the surface it looks to be. I do not write what my clear Mind may want to say to the white blank paper. I do not write what my thoughts are saying to me. Those things are facile, uninformed--flat mental pictures, the writer’s craft. I write what still voices of life: voices trivially frightful in their secret pettiness: voices of all my life--merest living--say to my ancient Soul and my young present Body and what they two may answer. I am in some sort a wonderful person--and in places I do that, nearly perfectly. I am also tired and someway whelmed by self-conscious despair, and possessed of a talent imperfect and inadequate to reveal the radiances and shades my being perceives: and in places I fail. I fail remarkably. I write Eye when I mean Tooth. I write Fornicate when I mean Caress. I write Wine when I mean Blood. For no better reason than that my writing hand is not sufficiently dexterous: the little flashing shutters open and shut so quick that the second ones are shut and the third starting to open before I have got written the things I saw through the first ones. Only not always.