—, Sunday, September 1, 1912.
Beginning a new month, although full of hope as usual at the beginning of anything, I also feel rather humble after my previous egoism. Thus I go from mood to mood, but the turning point is at hand. I cannot be tossed around like a bark without rudder or sail much longer and with my tendency to extremes, feeling that I have much power for good or evil in this world, one course I must enter on with the greatest determination.
Having willed to live at the moment of despair, I must needs live with sincerity and without conforming; a little more forbearance will do me good, and certainly the events of the past few weeks have been a sore trial. I have undoubtedly made a fool of myself, but still acknowledging my ideal, feel determined as ever, if chastened.
I candidly must say or write that . . . . questions are still open, but I intend to get right down to action towards a literary career, meanwhile gradually attaining the thing which I have been struggling for—not peace of mind exactly, but the feeling that I am doing my best in a sincere manner under the circumstances, namely, that I must go through life with health impaired to a greater or less extent; that I am inclined to extremes, pessimistic or very cheerful, even childish, by turns; that life appeals to me when I think as terribly inevitable that I have a tendency to degeneracy at times (which I feel I can overcome to a certain extent by heroic measures); that the happiness of a home and children of my own may be denied me. With these prospects before me, my fighting blood is up and I simply have got to go on and up or disintegrate altogether—there is no halfway measure for me, and I would have it so. I write with absolute sincerity now.