—That is as it should be, of course. One does not reckon by days in a dungeon.
I notice also that the periods get longer; it has more sweep—it leaps wider spaces—it is less easy to follow.
—Oh, let not any man read what I wrote this morning, except he stand upon the heights!
I have worn a path in the woods, deep and wide, pacing back and forth, back and forth, all day. Any one who saw me would think that I was mad. Fighting—fighting—all the time fighting! Sometimes I run—sometimes I don't know what I do. Last night I know that it grew dark, and that I was still lying flat on the dead leaves, striking my hands, that were numb with excitement. I was too weak to move—but I remember panting out, “There is nothing like that in King Lear!”
I brought about twenty phrases out of that, and one or two sentences. They will fall into the verse the next time it comes.