—it would be simpler and finer for me to do that Murder than to keep it in me. So many times in a week the trembling smothering longing to do that Murder beats, beats in my thin breast. To be so owned by a thing so small:—it is grief and despair and fury and wild nervous intolerableness. It strains my flesh—it wrenches my pulse—it blinds my eyes—it fills my throat—
—it would be a simpler and finer thing to do any Murder than to feel, even once, the strangling damnedness rising, rising at my throat—
[Loose twos]
To-morrow
I TAKE it for granted God knows all about me.
If God should read this it would not be news to him.
But his knowledge of me is not immediate knowledge nor immediately interesting to him. He knows my Twos-and-Twos but he does not make Fours of them.
I am formed of loose Twos which wait for God to make them Fours.
I can not do it myself. When I’ve tried the added Twos come out threes, seventies, nines, twelves—all the mysterious numbers. Never Fours.