—, Sunday, April 21, 1912.
After another relapse last night, I am beginning to think that much of my so-called idealism is merely a pitiable, boyish, conceited foolishness. This has often come to my mind, but I hesitated to express it; but if I am sincere I must record the other side of the question. To-day may or may not be the beginning of a more sensible outlook as far as my erratic, artistic temperament will permit. In any case this strain, self-imposed for the most part, must stop even if I have to throw over a few pet theories. I must be human even at the expense of virtue. I almost congratulate myself that I can at least laugh at my own foibles and enjoy the joke, just as I cannot help, cynically to a certain extent, pointing out others’ foolish earnestness over nothing. My sense of humor is indeed my saving grace.
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