Denver, Colo., February 8, 1913.
Yesterday was a good day. I went to bed feeling the same way as when I wrote the above, and even felt I had made a discovery, or rather discovered or realized an old truth in its application to my case, namely, moderation.
Instead of going to the extreme in one direction as I have done, I said go as far as the conditions permit, but cease before the pleasure does.
Applying this to intellect it would mean study philosophy, but don’t overwork it—dream with the poets, but not too much. In this plan, Strindberg, Shaw, Ibsen, and others all have their place.
Women, well the same here—quit before becoming weary, and a mental reservation to endeavor to hold off more and more, but not to take it to heart if not able to. This is a natural weakness, and is good if not too much. Can I do it? That is the question. If I can tide over that terrible reaction that comes several times a week, and sometimes night after night, I think I can endure life, or hell, as I am coming to regard it.
Reversing the conventional view I might say, “Life is hell, and we have nothing to look forward to which is worse, therefore if there is any future life, it must be better.” Whether this is logical or not, I don’t know, but it looks good to me, even if not altogether original.
I have been reading Strindberg at the Denver Library the last few days. I have read “Countess Julia, the Dream Play, the Link and the Dance of Death.”
I enjoyed them, which is a matter of course, as I always understand and enjoy deeply the work of genius, especially so-called degenerate genius.
Last night some time or other I dropped hope, only to pick her up again, for she must be a woman—she tantalizes me so much.