hundred years of hell.'

"And that's the story of the poor soul."

*

I thirst for some spring outside of me, which would refresh and redeem
me. I long for music, for faith, for some soul-liberating dedication of
myself! I find it not. I must seek the spring within myself.

*

In deepest grief it often seems to me as if it were not I who have
suffered thus. I go my way, and it seems as if some one were telling me
the story of what had happened to another.

*

For the first time in my life, I know what it is to feel that I am
being borne with and favored. I really ought not to be here. I am
eating the bread of charity. Now I know how the poor homeless ones must
feel. If Hansei cared to do so, he could send me out of his house this
very day, and what would become of me then?

*

I am obliged to eat in the company of my hospitable friends, and I find
it no easy matter to do so. I pity Hansei, most of all. To him, it must
seem as if a strange apparition--the phantom of one whom he knows not,
was seated at his table. I destroy his happiness.

*

I have punctured my hand with the gimlet, just because, while at work,
I am busy thinking of other things. My little pitchman has brought me a
healing salve.

*

Antique forms of beauty cannot be worked in wood. It is inflexible,
stubborn stuff, and can, with difficulty, be made to yield to the
designs of art. It is naught but a makeshift material.

*

"Oh, how glorious it must be to live up here!" How often is this
expression heard during country excursions! But we forget that the
atmosphere of country parties and that of home are two very different
things. How different when the wind whistles over the stubble fields
and rages among the leafless forest trees; when dull and heavy mists
creep over the mountains; when, for days and days, the clouds hang
upon the heights, and, now and then, suffer a summit to appear in
phantom-like outline, only to hide it again; when, at night, the storms
disturb your sleep, and it seems as if day would never come. Yes, ye
picnic spirits, with garlands of fresh leaves on your hats! spend weeks
up here without a sofa, without fresh bread; only think of it--without
a sofa!