May 21st.
I must finish this thing this time! That cry rings in my ears night after night. I am toiling upward—upward—I can see no sign of the end yet—but I must finish this time! If I had to stop with this thing haunting me—if I had to go out into that jungle of a world with this weight upon me—to repress myself with this fire in my heart—I could not bear it—I could not bear it!
And if I stopped and went out into that world again—how many weeks of agony would it cost me to get back to where I am now!
I must finish this time!
May 22d.
“No, officer, I am neither a burglar nor a highwayman, nor anything else worth bothering; I'm just a poet, and I'm crazy, to all practical purposes, so please get used to me and let me wander about the streets at these strange hours of the night without worrying!”
Poor, perplexed policeman! Poor, perplexed world! Poor, perplexed mothers and fathers, sisters and cousins and aunts of poets!
Mit deinen schwarzbraunen Augen
Siehst du mich forschend an:
“Wer bist du, und was fehlt dir,
Du fremder, kranker Mann!”