If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. . . I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure.

I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch‐light ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume...

All who joy would win
Must share it -- Happiness was born a twin.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd

I love not man the less, but nature more