Upon entering the house, I found that the final proofs of my book had just arrived from the printer, and sat down to read them.
The words of that family from Madrid still rang in my ears: "I wish they would kill every one of them!"
However one may feel, I thought to myself, it is impossible not to hate such people. Such people are natural enemies. It is inevitable.
Now, reading over the proofs of my book, it seems to me that it is not strident enough. I could wish it were more violent, more anti-middle class.
I no longer hear the voice of prudence seducing me, as it did a few days since, to a palinode in complicity with a romantic morning of white mist.
The zest of combat, of adventure stirs in me again. The sheltered harbour seems a poor refuge in my eyes,—tranquillity and security appear contemptible.
"Here, boy, up, and throw out the sail! Run the red flag of revolution to the masthead of our frail craft, and forth to sea!"
Itzea, September, 1917.