It is not strange that a man should be made drunk with happiness by the writing of a tragedy! That is the great insincerity of the artist. “That cry of agony!—what a triumph of genius was that my cry of agony!”
—It is not the sorrow, it is the struggle; so I read the tragedy. This man is dead, but God lives, and Art lives.
I will go back, I will do anything now—I will empty ash-cans, and find it a joy. The book is done—safe in next to my heart!—And now it will be printed, and not fire nor earthquake can destroy it after that. Free! Free!
I am writing on the train. I write commonplaces. That is because I can not shout.
But back there, coming out of the woods, I shouted—and not commonplaces either!
Coming out of the forest—forest-drunk! Now I know all about Pan and his creatures!
I write carelessly. But in my heart I sit shuddering before that fearful glory. O God, my Father, let me not forget this awful week, and I will live in Truth all my days.