I read some of the psalms to-night—far, far into the morning. My heart is a psalm.
—I have gotten something to do! I am a waiter in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue! I got the place this morning. Ugh!—it is nasty beyond words. But I do not care, it will keep me alive.
July 11th.
What a thing is hope! I have been for two days chained in the most horrible kind of a place. Picture it—to stand all day and see low people stuffing themselves with food—the dirt and the grease and the stench and the endless hideous drudgery! And I five days out of the springing forest and the ecstasy of inspiration!—Truly, it is a thing to put one's glory to a test! But I hardly feel it—I walk on air—deep back in my soul there is an organ song, I hear it all day, all day!
How soon will they write? I fly up-stairs each night, looking for a letter. Hurry up! Hurry up!
—“Pegasus im Joche!”
July 13th.