The words of the English language are futile. There are no words in it, or in any other, to express an idea of that thing which would be my life in its Happiness.
The words I have written describe it, it is true,—but confusedly and inadequately.
But words are for everyday use.
When it comes my turn to meet face to face the unspeakable vision of the Happy Life I shall be rendered dumb.
But the rains of my feeling will come in torrents!
[January 28.]
I AM an artist of the most artistic, the highest type. I have uncovered for myself the art that lies in obscure shadows. I have discovered the art of the day of small things.
And that surely is art with a capital “A.”
I have acquired the art of Good Eating. Usually it is in the gray and elderly forties and fifties that people cultivate this art—if they ever do; it is indeed a rare art.