—, Friday, August 23, 1912.
Gradually throwing off that almost inborn habit we have of acting as a pose for others, I must sometimes act in a way which must appear immoral when such is far from the actual truth. In the endeavor, weak it is true as yet, to rise above good and evil, the only criterion is sometimes whether such and such an act makes for weakness. If it does it transgresses against nature, and I make the definition that anything which does not go against nature is neither good nor evil. From this point of view, moral issues do not enter into the question to the same extent. I am going to put into writing the distinction I make between conceit and egoism. Conceit is exemplified by the young man who, shallow of heart and brain, dresses in fancy clothes and parades around so that the girls can admire him. This is one instance I take to contrast it with. . . . With the desire to express myself, to be an artist, to live the fullest life possible, or whatever my precise object may be, it is absolutely necessary to be damn independent.
I have found the family very impatient, and out of accord with my views and rejecting their ideals of a man—very conventional—I must of necessity make a break, because the petty bickering engendered is bound to dissipate my energy without anything being accomplished. Having attained more positive views later, I may see fit to resume the old status, being safeguarded by grim determination and absolute sincerity as far as possible, believing as I do, that truth is only relative.
The conflict is not only between reason and passion, but also between naturalism, and if I may put it, unnaturalism. That is, I want to act natural according to my nature rather than to set up an ideal opposed to my nature and endeavor to live up to it. The only trouble is that I have various moods, and at the time I really believe that each one is the right one. However, by gradually dropping unnatural habits caused by trying to conform, I hope to reach an impregnable position insofar that I am willing to lose everything for freedom to live my own life, believing that this seeming selfishness makes for the best for myself, family and all others, because even though wrong in many things, if my nature is wrong, it is better to be wrong and be myself than to be what I honestly believe to be wrong and please others.
—, Sunday, September 1, 1912.
Beginning a new month, although full of hope as usual at the beginning of anything, I also feel rather humble after my previous egoism. Thus I go from mood to mood, but the turning point is at hand. I cannot be tossed around like a bark without rudder or sail much longer and with my tendency to extremes, feeling that I have much power for good or evil in this world, one course I must enter on with the greatest determination.
Having willed to live at the moment of despair, I must needs live with sincerity and without conforming; a little more forbearance will do me good, and certainly the events of the past few weeks have been a sore trial. I have undoubtedly made a fool of myself, but still acknowledging my ideal, feel determined as ever, if chastened.
I candidly must say or write that . . . . questions are still open, but I intend to get right down to action towards a literary career, meanwhile gradually attaining the thing which I have been struggling for—not peace of mind exactly, but the feeling that I am doing my best in a sincere manner under the circumstances, namely, that I must go through life with health impaired to a greater or less extent; that I am inclined to extremes, pessimistic or very cheerful, even childish, by turns; that life appeals to me when I think as terribly inevitable that I have a tendency to degeneracy at times (which I feel I can overcome to a certain extent by heroic measures); that the happiness of a home and children of my own may be denied me. With these prospects before me, my fighting blood is up and I simply have got to go on and up or disintegrate altogether—there is no halfway measure for me, and I would have it so. I write with absolute sincerity now.
—, October 2, 1912.
Another month rolls on,—despite my having writen