Oct. 22. Y. P.
I am writing in the evening. All day I did not feel like working. I slept badly.... I corrected the 11th chapter in the morning, in the evening I began the 12th. I was unable to do anything—there is a boil on my head and my feet perspire. Is it from the honey? Aphanasi[237] and Maria Alexandrovna were here.
[It] is evening now. I am alone and horribly sad. I have neither doubts nor hurts, but am sad and want to cry. Oh, I must prepare myself more, more, for the new appointment.
A letter from Grot;[238] I ought to give him “Concerning Art.”
Thought only this:
In childhood, youth, the senses (sens) are very definite, the limits are firm. The longer you live, the more and more do these limits become wiped out, the senses get dulled—there is established a different attitude towards the world.
Oct. 23. If I live.
Oct. 26. Y. P.
A very strange thing: It is the third day that I cannot write. Am displeased with everything that I have written. There is something new and very important for Art, but I cannot express it clearly in any way.