Had I not offered up my heart for a sacrifice? Had I not burned it with fire? Had I not made all my being one consecration? And all for men, for men! For men I had torn myself--lashed myself--killed myself--for men I had forgotten what self was--yes, literally that--forgotten what self was! So little self had I left that I was willing to ask favors! So much consecration had I, so much trust, that I would beg! I had wept--I had suffered--I had starved! I had dreamed and sung, toiled until I set fire to my very brain! And you have beaten me and kicked me as if I were a filthy cur! Those thoughts turn my whole soul into one wild curse! Have done with laying bare your heart to men, have done with telling your life to men! Why should you go on trying to be a poet, go on putting your secret soul into books, to be spurned at by the rabble? Your soul is your own--it is your God's--and what have the rabble to do with it! And all its tenderness! all its shrinking ecstasy! all its holiest consecration!--You will take them out to sell them to the rabble! When will you get back into yourself, you fool? When will you have learned your lesson, and let this hellish world boot you out of its way no more? Let ever any man know a gleam of your heart again!--see one trace of your joy! * * * * * --And I came to it on my knees--to this world--crouching, cringing, begging! Oh, oh!--I scream it--Oh! --And after that I sank down by the bed and hid my face and sobbed: “Oh, Shelley! Oh, my Shelley!” * * * * * December 3d. --I saw myself a business man to-day, clearing a path for myself! But it does not last--I am not that kind of a man. My folly is my being--rest assured that I shall climb back to the heights again where I am willing to bear any insult. * * * * * But it will be a long time before I write any more letters. I have come to understand the world's point of view. I suppose busy men get thousands of letters from cranks; they will get no more from me. * * * * * December 5th. I was reading an essay on Balzac to-day. I read about Balzac's fondness for _things_; and I put the book down and spent an hour of perplexity. I fear I am a very narrow person in my sympathies and understandings. Why should a man care about _things_! About all sorts of houses and furniture, and pictures, and clothes, and jewels! I can understand a man's caring about love and joy and aspiration. But _things_! I can understand a child's caring about things, or a fool's caring; I see millions of such; but an artist? A thinker? A _man_? * * * * * I am reading novels nowadays--reading all sorts of things that _entertain_. I have not read a poem for a long time, I have no interest in reading unless I can _go_ with it.