Capitolo 74
feels the warm blood beat.
Some of the pages of this diary from which I copy word for word the
manuscript that lies in front of me, I give the reader. You call the dead writer a
egotist, if you want: wonders to the love of Callender for this self-centred
nature; I think that she was an artist, and as an artist, its experience is,
of art value.
"_December_--18--.
"I have lacerated as soon as out of the pages written one year or so ago. A notebook of
the introspective type is undoubtedly a pandering to the egotism, but I have
he/she always detested that affectation that ignores the fact that every person
it is to him or her the most interesting soul--yes, and body--in the
universe, and there is not now anything of the so endless importance to me as
this. I fear that I won't write again never. All thought or they plan, in prose
or toward, it seems dead in me: you imagine routs and withdraws that am wildly
offline craft through my tired mind. I am me driven every day.
I have been made to sit to my desk, with my pen in my hand looking in absent way
to the paper. Any words, no words! Few before my first book went to
you press, I tired. I was in a fever; poems, similes crossed mine
excited times. I could not write enough fast. In that mental corruption me
believes that I dissipated the energy of years, and I can now conceive anybody
more. If I could only sleep, I could perhaps write. Oh! long, from a lot
nights, crowded with the terrible acceleration of thoughts of crushed trival
one on another, crowding himself/herself/itself so fast. 'My God', I pray, 'Allows me to sleep,
only sleep', and it conquered from this abject need this tiredness,
not pronounceable, I am fain to believe that this gift, common to the beast
and he/she works as a slave, my mind it is better than anything you/he/she can earn for me, and there
it is not all over the world so entirely anything desirable as some times'
forgetfulness.
What a dream came to me this autumn! The doctor had given me an opiums.
For first it didn't have effect. I launched as uneasily as before on my firm ground