But mostly I take walks far away in the open country. Butte and its immediate vicinity present as ugly an outlook as one could wish to see. It is so ugly indeed that it is near the perfection of ugliness. And anything perfect, or nearly so, is not to be despised. I have reached some astonishing subtleties of conception as I have walked for miles over the sand and barrenness among the little hills and gulches. Their utter desolateness is an inspiration to the long, long thoughts and to the nameless wanting. Every day I walk over the sand and barrenness. And so, then, my daily life seems an ordinary life enough, and possibly, to an ordinary person, a comfortable life. That’s as may be. To me it is an empty, damned weariness. I rise in the morning; eat three meals; and walk; and work a little, read a little, write; see some uninteresting people; go to bed. Next day, I rise in the morning; eat three meals; and walk; and work a little, read a little, write; see some uninteresting people; go to bed. Again I rise in the morning; eat three meals; and walk; and work a little, read a little, write; see some uninteresting people; go to bed. Truly an exalted, soulful life! What it does for me, how it affects me, I am now trying to portray. January 14. I have in me the germs of intense life. If I could _live_, and if I could succeed in writing out my living, the world itself would feel the heavy intensity of it. I have the personality, the nature, of a Napoleon, albeit a feminine translation. And therefore I do not conquer; I do not even fight. I manage only to exist. Poor little Mary MacLane!--what might you not be? What wonderful things might you not do? But held down, half-buried, a seed fallen in barren ground, alone, uncomprehended, obscure--poor little Mary MacLane! Weep, world,--why don’t you?--for poor little Mary MacLane! Had I been born a man I would by now have made a deep impression of myself on the world--on some part of it. But I am a woman, and God, or the Devil, or Fate, or whosoever it was, has flayed me of the thick outer skin and thrown me out into the midst of life--has left me a lonely, damned thing filled with the red, red blood of ambition and desire, but afraid to be touched, for there is no thick skin between my sensitive flesh and the world’s fingers. But I want to be touched. Napoleon was a man, and though sensitive his flesh was safely covered. But I am a woman, awakening, and upon awakening and looking about me, I would fain turn and go back to sleep. There is a pain that goes with these things when one is a woman, young, and all alone. I am filled with an ambition. I wish to give to the world a naked Portrayal of Mary MacLane: her wooden heart, her good young woman’s-body, her mind, her soul. I wish to write, write, write!