If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. . . I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch‐light ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume...

In secret we met -
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears