But there are no words to tell it. It is something infinitely above and beyond words. It is the kind of Happiness the Devil will bring to me when he comes,—to me, to me! Oh, why does he not come now when I am in the midst of my youth! Why is he so long in coming?
Often you hear a dozen stories of how the Devil was most ready and willing to take all from some one and give him his measure of Happiness. And sometimes the person was innately virtuous and so could not take the Happiness when it was offered. But Happiness is its own justification, and it should be eagerly grasped when it comes.
A world filled with fools will never learn this.
And so here I stand in the midst of Nothingness waiting and longing for the Devil, and he doesn’t come. I feel a choking, strangling, frenzied feeling of waiting—oh, why doesn’t my Happiness come! I have waited so long—so long.
There are persons who say to me that I ought not to think of the Devil, that I ought not to think of Happiness—Happiness for me would be sure to mean something wicked (as if Happiness could ever be wicked!); that I ought to think of being good. I ought to think of God. These are persons who help to fill the world with fools. At any rate their words are unable to affect me. I can not distinguish between right and wrong in this scheme of things. It is one of the lines of reasoning in which I have gotten to the edge, the end. I have gotten to the point to which all logic finally leads. I can only say, What is wrong? What is right? What is good? What is evil? The words are merely words, with word-meanings.
Truth is Love, and Love is the only Truth, and Love is the one thing out of all that is real.
The Devil is really the only one to whom we may turn, and he exacts payment in full for every favor.
But surely he will come one day with Happiness for me.
Yet, oh, how can I wait!
To be a woman, young and all alone, is hard—hard!—is to want things, is to carry a heavy, heavy weight.