For some months now I have lived with
my own youth and childhood, not always writing indeed
but thinking of it almost every day, and I am sorrowful
and disturbed. It is not that I have accomplished
too few of my plans, for I am not ambitious; but when
I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise
words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have
given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes
that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of
my own life seems to me a preparation for something
that never happens.
Printed in the United States of America.