The question has unconsciously, however, narrowed itself down. I have given enough thought to the matter to reject the Christian theory of Christ being the son of God, and, leaving out most of the minor religions or philosophies which are obviously full of error (except as there may be a grain of truth here and there among the chaff), there is left such religions or philosophies as Theosophy, Monism, Spiritualism, and those which may be classed under the general head of Materialism (Rationalism, Free Thought, Positivism, etc., etc.), but as I do not see that any have as their basis Absolute Truth (that much abused word) I suspect I shall end where I began, as a Pragmatic Agnostic, denying that we have any Absolute Truth in our world, whatever may be beyond which we do not know. I have not read James; but will do so; and I think that I shall not give much attention to spiritualism, as no satisfactory evidence seems to support it, and there is too much charlatanism to offer a fair field for a truth-seeker. =Havana, Wednesday, May 22, 1912, 12:12 A. M.= It is no use--I have to acknowledge defeat. Born with such a Jekyll-and-Hyde disposition that I am never normal, either so filled with ideals that everything good and noble seems possible, or so black that I shrink from myself in horror--even though it has been in thought rather than deed that I have transgressed or been an idealist. It is not that I have contemplated deeds of violence, but one thing, sex, is the cause of the perfect hell my life has been. During the past year I have foolishly thought I could make myself what I willed, could be consistent and normal; vain hope and it needed to-night to show me this. After all my noble aspirations, hopes, love of literature, and the beautiful things in life, I could not keep my resolve of my birthday. Torture is the only word for it. My sexual passions, from their first awakening, have given me no rest and never will. I have not had at any time a girl who loved me, have never even kissed. With almost uncontrollable passion, and yet the ability to be satisfied with embrace and touch rather than final consummation, yet have I not had that chance with any but the lowest who fill me with disgust, or else attract me in a mad passion which for the moment is insatiable. Much of this is due to my wretched physical health, wrecked nervous force and absolute lack of any kind of love for so long that I am too selfish and self-centred ever to amount to anything. Who is to blame? My father dead, how can I blame him for his share? My mother is the only hope left in the world. Without her, suicide would seem to be the only alternative, and I have ... what is this after all but the imagined courage of a weakling, my egoism the conceit of a degenerate? A month ago I would not have dared to write this, but unless this summer serves to recuperate me, I must go down rapidly. Having started sinking all round, I dare not go in for anything without a sleepless night.