“If one touches them with the hands, they make dust around them like meal-sacks, and involuntarily; _but who could guess that their dust comes from corn and the golden rapture of the summer fields?_” * * * * * “Too far away into the future I flew; a horror overcame me. And as I looked around me, there was Time my only companion. “Then I flew backward, homeward--and ever faster: so I came to you, men of the present, and to the Land of Culture. “For the first time I brought an eye for you, and good wishes; truly, with longing in my heart I came. “And what happened to me? Frightened as I was--I had to laugh. Never had my eyes seen anything so color-besprinkled! “I laughed and laughed while my foot still trembled, and my heart too: 'Here is the home of all paint-pots!' said I. “Painted over with fifty spots in face and limbs; so sat ye there, to my amazement, ye men of the present!... “Written all over with the signs of the past, and also these signs painted over with new signs; so you have hidden yourself well from all sign-readers!... “All Times and Principles look piebald out of your coverings; all Customs and Faiths speak piebald out of your features.... “How _could_ ye believe, ye color-besprinkled!--who are pictures of everything that ever was believed!... “Ah, whither shall I go now with my longing?” * * * * * “Who are pictures of everything that ever was believed! Who are pictures of everything that ever was believed!” I read that and I slapped my knees and I lay back and laughed like a very Falstaff. “Pictures of everything that ever was believed!” Ho, ho, ho! * * * * * --That is some of Nietzsche! * * * * * January 8th. To-day it snowed hard, and it occurred to me that I might add to my money. I bought a second-hand shovel and went out to shovel snow. It is not so bad, I said, you are out of doors, and also you can think of Nietzsche. I made a dollar and a half, but I fear I did not think very much. My hands were cold, for one thing, and my shoes thin, for another. * * * * * There is nothing that brings me down like physical toil. It is madness to believe that you can do anything else--you drudge and drudge, and your mind is an absolute blank while you do it. It is a thing that sets me wild with nervousness and impatience. I hate it! I hate it! And I find myself crying out and protesting against it; and then I see other men not minding it, and I hear the words of my dear clergyman friend: “The labor which all of us have to share.” So I say to myself: Perhaps I am really an idler then! A poor unhappy fool that can not face life's sternness, that is crying out to escape his duty! * * * * * That I could say such a thing--O God, what sign is that of how far I have fallen! Of how much I have yielded!--