In the eighth he is obviously sensual and reeking with uncleanness--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the ninth he is unearthly and mysterious and unreal--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the tenth he is black and sullen-browed, and ill-humored--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the eleventh he is inferior and trifling and inane--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the twelfth he is rough and ruffianly and uncouth--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the thirteenth he is little and wolfish and vile--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the fourteenth he is calm and confident and intellectual--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the fifteenth he is vacillating and fretful and his mouth is like a woman’s--and still he is strong. I fall in love with him. In the sixteenth he is slow and heavy and brutal--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the seventeenth he is rather tender--and strong. I fall vividly in love with him. Napoleon was rather like the Devil, I think as I sit in the straight-backed chair with my feet on the bureau and gaze long and intently at the seventeen pictures, late in the evening. Then I wearily put them away, maddened with the sense of Nothingness, and take Little Fido and go to bed. Sometimes, early in the evening just before dinner, I sit in the stiff-backed chair with my elbows on the window-sill and my head resting on one hand, and I look out of the window at a Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime. These are in the vacant lot next to this house. I fix my eyes intently on the Pile of Stones and the Barrel of Lime. And I fix my thoughts on them also. And some of my widest thoughts come to me then. I feel an overwhelming wave of a kind of pantheism which, at the moment I feel it, begins slowly to grow less and less and continues in this until finally it dwindles to a Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime. I feel at the moment that the universe is a Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime. They alone are the Real Things. Take anything at any point and deceive yourself into thinking that you are happy with it. But look at it heavily; dig down underneath the layers and layers of rose-colored mists and you will find that your Thing is a Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime. A struggle or two, a fight, an agony, a passing--and then the only Real Things: a Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime. Damn everything! Afterward you will find that you have done all your damning for naught. For there is nothing worthy of damnation except a Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime--and they are not damnable. They have never harmed you, and moreover they alone are the Real Things. Julius Caesar made many wars. Sir Francis Drake went sailing over the seas. It was all child’s play and counts for nothing. Here are the Pile of Stones and a Barrel of Lime.