And once would I dance as never had I danced before; above all the heavens away would I dance. And then you lured away my dearest singer!...
Only in the dance can I speak metaphors of the highest things:—and now my highest metaphor remained unspoken in my limbs!
Unspoken and undelivered remained my highest hope! And there died all the visions and solaces of my youth!
That thing brought the tears down my cheeks. It is what my soul has cried all day and all night—that I see all my joy and all my beauty going!
It is the fearful, the agonizing waiting that does it. I know it—I put it down—there is nothing kills the soul in a man so much as that. When you wait your life is outside of yourself; you hope,—you are at the mercy of others—at the mercy of indifference and accident and God knows what.
But again I cry, “What can I do? If there is anything I have not done—tell me! Tell me!”
Here I sit, and I have but seven dollars left to my name, including what I made by the shoveling. And I sit and watch the day creep on me like a wild beast on its prey—the day when I must go back into the world and toil again! Oh, it will kill me—it will kill me!
I sit and wait and hang upon the faint chance of one publisher more. It is my only chance,—and such a chance! I find myself calculating, wondering; yes, famous books have been rejected often, and still found their mark. Can I still believe that this book will shake men?