My passion, ungratified, except with mercenary women, has been a terrible thing. If I could have had a little satisfaction, even without actual intercourse, in my youth, as other fellows have, I might have been spared the suffering, mental and physical, caused by my random attempts to feed my insatiable hunger. Not having anything pleasant to look back upon in an emotional way, has probably contributed more than any one thing, to my despair of the future. When in desperation, just after my twentieth birthday, I first had intercourse with a prostitute, I made little distinction between moral and immoral women, that is, some women I felt naturally attracted to; others repulsed me, and this attraction, physical or mental, I was generally unable to follow up more in practically every case. With one or two exceptions, every prostitute I had intercourse with was a source of bitter disappointment, and constant recriminations by my bitter outraged nature. I worried and worried over these downfalls, as I invariably considered them after. The one or two exceptions, however, left me with no feelings of disgust or disappointment. I enjoyed them thoroughly. They were with women who had a strong attraction to me, and I would not have changed them for many a virtuous woman, except for the experience of being the first. Altogether, I have not had intercourse with more than twenty women, and most of them, of the shortest, being generally driven by strong passion without a worthy object. Many a time have I cursed myself, however, for ever beginning. At about the same time as my first fall, I first touched liquor. I often feel that if I had been told by my parents, I might not have taken the first downward step and waited until I could give my emotion a healthy outlet on honorable terms. As it is, I have lost something which is the cause of my condition of despair, and it will take a long, slow process of upbuilding to give me back my enthusiasm and grip on life, but events of to-day and yesterday give me hope and encouragement. =Denver, Colo., February 5, 1913.= To go back to my story, after deciding on January 10th to commit suicide on May 10th, my troubles became worse instead of better. The will to live rebelled against this decision, and I endeavored to drown the still small voice, and succeeded in doing so, only to have it come up again. Only one reaction in Chicago, however, amounted to anything. In my usual impulsive, emotional manner, after reading Shaw’s “Quintessence of Ibsenism,” my old feelings about art and literature returned with force augmented by the depth of the preceding condition of pessimism and hopelessness. For a week I felt like a genius, went about full of esthetic feelings, courage. I exercised twice a day, thus conquering an habitual physical laziness, walked with a springy step, inhaling the cold air enthusiastically. In short, it was the same old story.