Thursday, March 14--Quiet and calm, exhausted from previous flurries; later, storm again, very bad, and depths of morbid despair. Friday, March 15--Ambitious and determined--fine all day--restless night. The above pretty well represents my struggle for a long time, but through it all I have had a confidence in the final triumph and a constant return to my ideals and ambition, and I am noticing a gradual elimination of some weaknesses. The blue moods I am beginning to check before going too far, and the ecstasy I am also holding in an endeavor to preserve a calm, ceaselessly persistent demeanor, neither too hot nor too cold. To-day I hope to be a model one, one of steady work, writing, studying, arranging papers; no time for self-consciousness, worrying or anything else. So far, from 6:25 to 8:25, it has been ideal. =--, March 24, 1912, 9:53 P. M.= After another despicable fall following on a good and bad day, I am almost desperate and realize that the fight for life must come to a head soon. I wrote the preceding from 7:35 to 8:25 this morning. Following that I started in on my scraps and about 11 o’clock my plan for a hard day’s work came to naught, because of a disturbed mind due, as I know, to too much of one thing. I simply have not the capacity to stick to one thing very long, although the things I like are always fresh after diversion. Going out for a change, some of the boys asked me to cross the river for a good walk. I consented, and after dinner (almuerzo or breakfast here), we took bum boat to landing near Morro, walked to Cojimar, across country, along shore and on roads, and thence to Regla. The hot sun and dusty roads tired me, and to-night, tired and wearied, I fell. Too much is killing for me. I must hold off, and simply cannot stand any day too much of anything. There simply has got to be a readjustment or I shall go crazy or become desperate. Below all this I feel the fight welling up in me, however, and to-morrow must hold forth better promise. =Havana, Tuesday, April 9, 1912, 12:30 A. M.= Somebody has said, “War is hell.” I say, “Life is Hell,” with a capital H. God! but I would not have believed it possible a few years ago that a man could go through such prolonged mental agony. Am I a degenerate? Is there some insidious form of insanity slowly creeping over me? Gautier has said that nothing is beyond words. I deny this--I could be as eloquent as ever man was, have as fine a command of language, be as fluent, brilliant as the best of the masters; but I could not describe the agony of the past few weeks.