January 26th.
The reason that I shudder so at the prospect of having to face the world again, is that I have no hope. I have no hope! Once I could go out into that hellish market. I could be any man's slave, do any drudgery—because I saw a light ahead—I saw deliverance—I had a purpose!
And now what purpose have I—what hope have I? I tell you I am a man in a trap! I can do nothing! I can do no more than if I were walled in with iron!
I say that my business in this world is to be a poet! I say that there is only one thing I can do—only one way that I can get free—and that is by doing my work, by writing books. And I have done all that I can do, I have earned my freedom—and no one will give it to me! Oh, I shall die if I am penned here much longer!
I eat out my heart, I burn up my very entrails in my frenzies. Set me free! Set me free!
I thought to-day if I only had a little money—if I could only publish that book myself! I can not believe that men would not love it—I can not—no, you may crush me all you please, but I can not! And I would take it and shout it from the housetops—I would peddle it on the streets—I would make the world hear me!
—And then I sink back, and I hear the world say, “You poor fool!”