But I walk no longer in a vain shadow. I
have known affliction by the rod of His wrath. But the darkness in
which I walk is not the darkness of thickening gloom, but the
darkness of the breaking day.
And then, too, I suppose that writing down my thoughts from day to
day just eased the dumb pain of inaction, as the sick man shifts
himself in his bed. Anyhow it is written, and it shall stand as a
record.
But now I shall write no more. I shall slip gratefully and securely
into the crowd of inarticulate and silent men and women, the vast
majority, after all, of humanity. One who like myself has the
consciousness of receiving from moment to moment sharp and clear
impressions from everything on earth, people, houses, fields,
trees, clouds, is beset by a kind of torturing desire to shape it
all in words and phrases. Why, I know not! It is the desire, I
suppose, to make some record of what seems so clear, so distinct,
so beautiful, so interesting. One cannot bear that one impression
that seems so vivid and strange should be lost and perish. It is
the artistic instinct, no doubt. And then one passes through the
streets of a great city, and one becomes aware that of the
thousands that pass one by, perhaps only one or two have the same
instinct, and even they are bound to silence by circumstance, by
lack of opportunity.
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