Jan. 19. Moscow.
Depressing and unproductive. I cannot work. Several times a week I remember that everything disagreeable is only an Ermahnung for an advance onward towards perfection.
Help, Father. Come and dwell within me. You already dwell within me. You are already “me.” My work is only to recognise Thee. I write this just now and am full of desire. But nevertheless I know who I am.
Very weak and apathetic. All the time I either read or corrected proofs of Art. There is much to be noted. But I have neither strength nor desire. There have been no events, no letters.
Feb. 3, Moscow. If I live.
February 3, Moscow.
I am still as unproductive intellectually. In the morning it flashed across my mind that I left out the places in Art about the trinity, and doing no work, I went to Grot and from there to the publishing house. I returned past two, read, lay down, dined. Tarovat[285] arrived, then Menshikov, Popov, Gorbunov, and then—Gulenko,[286] Suller.[287]
Read Liapunov’s The Ploughman. I was very touched.[288]
Have noted down the following: