ose times I
know I was very passionate and unreasonable. I had regular fits of
jealousy and anger, but at other times I had a boundless pity for him,
there was something so pathetic about his gestures and his voice when he
told me he knows just how I feel about him, that I could have cried out
with the ache of my heart. It was so terrible to see how he suffered in
his heroic attempt to suffice unto himself, to defy the world. He tries
to think and feel deeper and higher than anyone else, but this is a
terrible, terrible strain. It is all fearfully sad, and sometimes I wish
I had never known him."

About his speech, Terry wrote:

"I am one of the by-products that do not pay just now, until some
process comes along and sets the seal of its approval on me. Just now I
am deemed worse than useless, and since my speech on 'The Lesson of the
Haymarket Riot' the authorities are looking for a law that will deport
me. This will suit me, as I will swear that I am a citizen of no man's
land. What I really need is not deportation, but solitary confinement,
for the sake of my meditations. For even with my scant companionship I
feel as if I were a circus animal. I still clutch convulsively to the
idea that thought is the only reality and all expression of it merely a
grading down of what was most high. If I am shut up I must cease talking
and may think about real things, that is, ideal things. That would help
me to put up with the world, which cannot put up with me unless I am in
cold storage. There is a mental peace which passeth all understanding,
and perhaps I might find that peace in prison. I have been insidiously
poisoning my own mind for some time, and unless I can stop this I had
better cease from talking, which does not seem to purge me of my
unconscious pose, and retire to solitude behind the prison bars. There,
undisturbed, I can meditate and often remember peacefully the beautiful
things I have known in literature and nature. Beauty is like rain to the
desert, it is rare, but it vanishes only from the surface of things, and
deep down who knows what secret springs it feeds? As my sands run out,
the remembrance of the brief beauty I have known will break over me like
the pleasant noise of far-off Niagara waters on the stony desert of my
life.

"I once thought that I could help the mob to organise its own freedom.
But now I see that we are all the mob, that all human beings are alike,
and that all I or anyone can do is to