Havana, Tuesday, July 2, 1912, 12:45 A. M.
I don’t know whether it was a premonition which caused me to put morning at the head of my previous entry, because now, the same night, or the next morning very early I am obliged to repudiate it all. It is no use—my philosophy as outlined last week would be all right, but for two things, i. e., my absolute lack of opportunity of touching life, and my absolute lack of strength, physical, mental, or moral to cultivate power. Determinism is forced on me against my will. As far as possible in my good moods I suppose I shall follow my first philosophy of Tuesday, June 25, but, nevertheless, I am fast being forced to a thorough determinism because I simply cannot control myself. What I might have done had I not been forced to become a victim of our commercial system (so that at twenty-two I am exhausted, my enthusiasm and hope almost killed by deadly routine and no prospect of relief), I do not know, but I think I would have accomplished much under careful training or even a fair opportunity to express my individuality. To-night everything seems hopeless—whether insanity is creeping on me I do not know. I simply must have sexual intercourse to relieve the strain, and it is the lack of it which brings on these moods. If for nothing else woman is a necessity for me to relieve the great strain when routine becomes so deadly as to tempt me to throw everything to the winds. If I could come home and have a woman, I am sure that I could be saved much if not all this—the worst of it at least, but our damnable conventions keep me from them and keep them from me even though many women are enduring tortures of unrelieved emotion for lack of what I could give them. Oh! life is indeed hell—why, or wherefore, I don’t know, and I am fast reaching the point where I care less. In an evil moment I consented to stay on here for a few weeks longer for a consideration of my return fare to New York. This means three more weeks before I can get away from this damnable place which has been getting on my nerves more and more so that I never hated anything as I hate this island and everything and everyone on it.
Havana, July 3, 1912.
Well, despite my little outburst of early yesterday morning, I am still in the fight. After every defeat I arise, chastened, perhaps, but with a growing feeling that I will win.
I must confirm and add to my philosophy as outlined on June 25th. As I wrote yesterday, Determinism seems to be true as things are at present, but even accepting this does not make me any the less a fighter, for it is quite consistent with that philosophy that my determinism is to be something, and the weak periods are only to strengthen me.
As to the Life part of it, that is still a little doubtful. I have not touched it enough, my experiences have not been broad enough with the other sex for me to throw over all conventions, for I know from experience and the experiences of others, that when a woman plays fast and loose she loses so much that even conventionalism sometimes seems preferable to a loosening of the bonds. My idea was to idealize the relations, have all children legitimate. While I think my part would be done all right, I doubt other men and women. Besides, I have always had an unconscious and sometimes conscious feeling of superiority to women—this has been so indefinite, however, that I do not lay too much stress on it at present.
I must reiterate Power as the keynote. Every weak yielding . . . . impossibility to me at least of what I will call “The Impulsive Philosophy,” i. e., philosophy of being guided by emotion and sentiment, to the exclusion of reason. Reason must coordinate, if not dominate, and at least impulse must not dominate. This is my second outline, but I am going to disregard the foolish system of dates,—time is to attain anything. I realize the folly of saying at a certain date I will stop this or that I will reform in this or that. All I can do is to attempt to live up to a certain standard as fast as I have decided it to be best and to endeavor to drop off everything that pulls me down as soon as possible.
Havana, July 20, 1912.
Last day in Havana. At last my counting of each day as bringing nearer to my goal is about to end. Whether my return . . . . is productive of results commensurate with my expectations or not, my relief at the suspension of the agony of the struggle down here is so deep and heartfelt that I could shout for joy.