Part 5

I am an agnostic, and, philosophically at least, an anarchist. I want to be free, to glory in liberty; to have no boss, to be able to develop my intellect. To do this I am willing to pay the price of keeping within the law, to refrain from indulging sexually more than seems absolutely necessary, but I cannot look forward to being fed and given a place to rest in, and otherwise allowed to develop in my own way, but not being allowed freedom of action and residence.

I am not insane now, but any attempt at coercion or confinement would drive me violently insane. I should beat at the doors of my cell, curse everything and die raving, and it is the fear of confinement that keeps me from submitting this to those who could probably save me if they would.

Before the day when my last dollar is gone comes I may in desperation [decide] to risk this, in the hope of being allowed to live in my own way rather than commit suicide, but I don’t know.

=Denver, Colo., February 6, 1913.= After that fall in Chicago, after Strindberg, Saturday, January 25th, hope left me until the 30th. Leaving that day for ’Frisco a certain old time grim resolution to make another big effort took possession of me, but to no purpose as usual.

At noon of the 31st, I changed trains at La Junta for a side trip to Denver. While on the way to Denver I became acquainted with the man who put me back in fighting mood for several days. Our conversation started when he asked permission to sit beside me, which was unnecessary, but polite. He casually asked if I was going to stay in Denver. I said no, that I was merely on a visit. I asked to be referred to a hotel. He told me of the ---- kept by his brother.

We talked along, and he painted Colorado in glowing colors--said he had left New York twenty-two years ago, and with the exception of one year in Texas, had lived in Denver ever since. To his mind there was no place like it. He told me business was quiet, but that I could undoubtedly get something within a short time. He invited me to call at his house on Sunday.

We arrived Friday night, the 31st, and he pointed out the hotel from the station, and hurried off. Saturday, I took sight-seeing car through city, and Sunday foothills trip. The air was fine, as he had enthusiastically said, and the bright appearance of things, despite a snowstorm on Saturday, argued well for this as a healthy, bright, beautiful city and all he said it was.

I called on him Sunday, and found he had a beautiful house, a pleasant wife and two fine children. The little girl of three took to me right away, which surprised them but not me, as children do take to me. The boy of thirteen was also very enthusiastic, bright and friendly, and after supper we three grown-ups had a pleasant talk on various subjects. I left with a delightful feeling of having had a glimpse of a nice home, which brought back all my thoughts of times past of a home, with a lovely wife and children on my knee, dreams which in my bad periods I had rejected as hopeless for me, thus taking away a great spur to work and ambition.

Impulsively the next day I put in my ticket for refund, being willing in my enthusiasm to lose $11 or so for baggage, which had gone on to Frisco, to say nothing of freight charges of over $7, including boxing, for return to Denver. Thus I expect to pull out $10 of my $49.75 for ticket from Chicago, fare to Denver being $22.60, tourist. I give these figures to show how great was my ecstasy on Monday morning, February 3d, perhaps the last time I shall feel so optimistic and in love with everything, great enough to make me, without work and less than $100 in cash, drop $18 carelessly and without worry--me, who had skimped and scraped ever since started working, although only to lose recklessly on impulses.

Then I went after work in the same spirit; called on the Chamber of Commerce, was referred to two reliable employment agencies, went to the typewriter companies, and visited one prospective employer. On Tuesday I visited three, and could probably have landed one, but my old bugaboo, the reaction, had begun to set in, and at 5 o’clock Tuesday, after lying down in my room at the hotel I got up, hurriedly dressed, rushed to the railroad ticket office, and asked to have my baggage stopped. My ticket had gone in for refund, and the freight agent promised to telegraph immediately to hold baggage if not already sent. Yesterday I found it had been sent, and now await returns on that and my ticket.

When I got these I thought of going on to Frisco and ending it all there. Last night I wrote a despairing letter home, offering to return if they would send me $50, but did not mail it, and this morning tore it up, merely writing saying I would be here until the latter part of this month in case the family had any proposition to make to me or money to send.

If they ask me to return and send some money, I probably will. Otherwise I shall probably go to Frisco with a week or two week’s expenses in my pocket after paying fare, and finishing this story. I say probably in both cases because I now realize my hopeless lack of will-power, my whole life practically being impulse with a delusive current of purpose running through it.

=--, February 6, 1913, 10:37 P. M.= This morning I cast out hope. To-night I feel that beneath all my degeneracy and weakness, I am a genius and I feel that I cannot die without leaving something behind. No, I will fight. It is harder for my yielding, but I cannot give up without a struggle. Somewhere and at some time I must prove that I am something besides a weakling. Good and evil predominate by turns, love and hate, weakness and strength. Reconciliation is the solution. I have just read an article in The International for November, 1911--“J. William Lloyd, Philosopher of the Paradox,” and it gives me new faith in myself.

=Denver, Colo., February 8, 1913.= Yesterday was a good day. I went to bed feeling the same way as when I wrote the above, and even felt I had made a discovery, or rather discovered or realized an old truth in its application to my case, namely, moderation.

Instead of going to the extreme in one direction as I have done, I said go as far as the conditions permit, but cease before the pleasure does.

Applying this to intellect it would mean study philosophy, but don’t overwork it--dream with the poets, but not too much. In this plan, Strindberg, Shaw, Ibsen, and others all have their place.

Women, well the same here--quit before becoming weary, and a mental reservation to endeavor to hold off more and more, but not to take it to heart if not able to. This is a natural weakness, and is good if not too much. Can I do it? That is the question. If I can tide over that terrible reaction that comes several times a week, and sometimes night after night, I think I can endure life, or hell, as I am coming to regard it.

Reversing the conventional view I might say, “Life is hell, and we have nothing to look forward to which is worse, therefore if there is any future life, it must be better.” Whether this is logical or not, I don’t know, but it looks good to me, even if not altogether original.

I have been reading Strindberg at the Denver Library the last few days. I have read “Countess Julia, the Dream Play, the Link and the Dance of Death.”

I enjoyed them, which is a matter of course, as I always understand and enjoy deeply the work of genius, especially so-called degenerate genius.

Last night some time or other I dropped hope, only to pick her up again, for she must be a woman--she tantalizes me so much.

=Denver, Colo., Monday, February 10, 1913.= Yesterday as the day wore on, gloom prevailed, increasing until last night, but I clenched my fists and grit my teeth this morning, and will go on.

Three months to a day to my birthday, I notice, who am always looking for auspicious dates for a new start.

The principal issue is clear, I must crucify my perverted hereditary sexual appetites. Absolute continence except under favorable conditions. As these conditions are unlikely to occur, as I am not going looking for them, namely, that a woman yield from pure love or passion, and the only other alternative is marriage, I have a big fight on, but as the issue is life with honor, or death, with or without honor, I feel that I shall make this stand at last, after which the fight will be easier, if without the prospect of happiness, for, after all, I must not expect happiness; I must learn to live without it, to make my life represented by my work, and finally I may attain a degree of peace and rest, if not of happiness. Yes, crucify, the devil.

=New York, Sunday, February 23, 1913.= Arrived here last Tuesday night, the 18th. Thursday on bad attack of grippe. Misery, of course, induced exceeding pessimism, but .... although physically miserable, my mental condition is hopeful.

Shall endeavor to remain in New York. Depends on whether I get well quick and get work quick, as I have just $24 in cash left from the $400 I saved in Havana, with $10 from railway refund coming sometime. If health and work come out, then it is only a matter of being able to keep it up.

If not pride humbled, back to ..... Apropos of this, I am not so sure but that I made a bigger fool of myself than others whom I consigned to that class.

Have been with old friend ----, first time in five years, with exception of one brief day. He has changed considerably. Now is all for experience and practicality--theories merely a sideline, and, of course, for both of us to live it must be so.

=New York, February 28, 1913.= I leave to-morrow for ----, my last trip. On the eve of a new month I feel indifferent. Hopelessness took possession of me several days ago, and I pretty well decided to end it all as planned.

However, as my money is gone I must work if I am to live even until May 10th, and, of course, if I work again for ever so short a time in view, I cannot say how long I may keep it up, so I say nothing.

I make no grand resolutions for beginning [of month], but the usual sexual one, having fallen again. Even if I must die because of my weakness physically I would like a

* * * *

=--, Sunday, March 23, 1913.= I had not intended writing in my diary to-day, but at the end of the month. This evening, alone in the house, everything quiet, the fire gently singing, even the cat asleep. I was reading in the kitchen Dickens’ “Great Expectations.” I just heard a sound and find my brother Percy asleep on the sofa in the next room. A feeling of peace came over me as I laid down my book that I was prompted to write in my diary, for moments of peace have been so infrequent of late that it was a remarkable contrast to my wild vagaries and desperately suppressed emotions.

For I am working again. I arrived here night of Saturday, March 1st, and on Tuesday the 4th, commenced work with ---- at the fine salary of $55 a month, with prospects. They offered $50; I suggested it ---- and we compromised on $55. Of course, there have been openings in my line at higher salaries, but I took the first thing and will not change, as it seems good as business goes, unless the prospects do not materialize.

Though I hated to acknowledge it to myself, I needed to get back to work more than anything else to save me. I had my opportunity, or rather I saved up $400 by sacrifices in Havana, and then sat down and did nothing until half was gone, afterwards wasting the rest in a wild goose chase after my destiny.

However, I entered into my work with a spirit of hopeful resignation. Being inevitable, and for the first time in my work, acknowledging it, I will not say I attend to it more conscientiously, but I grip myself when a wave of the old dissatisfaction passes over me and work, work.

At night I sleep, but at intervals during day and evening, and in the morning I find it a great effort not to fly off the handle in protest of it all, but keep on just the same.

I have had several passionate weak outbursts during the month, several times I have made a fool of myself by venting my temper on those around me, but generally I hold myself in better and am more conscious of having command of myself.

As for my ideas and ambition. It is still alive. The will to live is stronger than any misery as a force for life as against death. Taking this as a mere basis, I must of necessity have some larger view than the mere cramping effect of a clerkship.

I work, because I must and under protest, but I try to do my best, and I work honestly and I earn my salary and more, as much as I can under the circumstances.

I am just getting settled and am getting my books together. I am now going in for drama and I still have a soft spot in my heart for philosophy, although I am still at the beginning of Kant’s Critique. I read a little of it to-day.

I still feel the call of a larger mission, but I feel more like going about it in a practical, business-like way, because I realize I must. I acknowledge that. Experience has had to push facts down my throat before I would face them with the aid of Bernard Shaw.

I feel more sincere now. A tendency I have noted to theatricalism I will sternly suppress. I sometimes act cruelly after a mental struggle and I just hold myself by calling on Neitzsche and the philosophy of the superman, and then woe betide the one who crosses me.

While I will not force it, and avoid self-pity, I cannot help feeling at bottom the tragedy of life to me. It is such an effort to live, there is so little to look back on, no youth, no sweetheart, no love except that of the children, and the mistaken love of a weak mother. The short peace to-night stands out but as soon as I became conscious of it I said to myself that I must cultivate that frame of mind to do the best work and find out the truth quickest.

=--, Sunday, June 1, 1913.= This morning, the beginning of week and month, and the first real spring Sunday of the season, I once more start on a process of rehabilitation. For three years I have been fighting my sexual passions. Previous to May 21, 1910, as I note from that date in my diary, I was clean absolutely, as I have said before. Three years of the fiercest action and reaction. Despair to the verge of suicide, exultation to such heights of ecstasy that Heaven opened its gates almost. And in between indifference, or simply dull care, daily monotonous, hopeless toil, restless, tired nights.

I lived over the date set for my suicide, May 10th, this year. Every month I determined to start in anew, practically every month for these three years. At the first of the years 1911, 1912 and 1913; at birthdays May 10, 1911, 1912 and 1913, Leap-year, February 29, 1912, and after every despair I started in anew with the determination to not only conquer that weakness, but to restrain myself in speech and act sufficiently .... ahead and accomplish something.

Failure has been the result every time. I ask myself why, and the answers are many and various, according to the last disappointment.

In a large measure it has been due to that emptiness of my life, to the lack of affection and a definite ambition, and to my not being more positive instead of attempting to be merely negatively virtuous or self-controlled (as I don’t like the word virtuous), combined with nervousness, strong passions and emotional qualities with no proper outlet for them when they became so put up as to threaten to overflow.

To-day I begin on a new ground, that of being positive and rigidly self-controlled until I feel I can relax with impunity. I have tried relaxing before after a week, two weeks, but one relaxation in word or act has been followed by others until the circle has been completed by a blind unreasoning yield to the sexual impulse under conditions of mental chaos and physical exhaustion, and then new resolutions and reaction set in.

I would go far to state that it is different now, but so repeatedly and in such a series of shocks has the lesson been driven home, that I have simply in desperation put suicide on one side and restraint on the other, and, realizing that it is impossible to go on as I have been doing, I have, with all the remaining strength, passion, love, honor, or whatever is left in me, ambition and enthusiasm, and the like, determined once and for all and for one year at least to be absolutely ascetic as the first step. To restrain myself all around is, of course, the next, and I will succeed fairly well.

The big questions of sex I leave open. I must get an impersonal view away from the conflict first.

Philosophy I also leave open, tentatively adopting the simple formula from that of the superman, the will to live because life is painful and the will to power, endeavoring to thrust out everything that makes for weakness.

=Friday, June 13, 1913.= Just writing to-day because it happens to be Friday the 13th--13th more because I have nothing but contempt for the silly superstition.

Have maintained my resolution as far as sex is concerned easily enough to date, but otherwise I am not satisfied with self-control attained, that is, in speech and temper, but time will tell. I’ll pull through a full year on the one thing in any case, and I am still fighting for all around control, and a settled scheme of work towards becoming a successful playwright.

=Saturday, July 26, 1913.= Nearly two months passed since June 1st, and I have failed to keep my good resolutions and also to commit suicide after several failures. It seems a silly business all around, these writings included, but I must keep on for awhile in this strain.

The only thing is to try again. I only realize the more keenly the utter hopelessness of the easiest way. Self-control, and the thought as I look ahead of giving up things is harder, but the other is impossible. I hesitate to express myself so confidently as to my ability to be a superman and a genius, but I can still fight on for a time at least. The end is not yet. What it will be I don’t know. The depths have been deep and the heights might have been higher, but there is a fair middle course possible and I’ll try to do my best.

At twenty-three I have to go back to the self-consciousness of youth before I can cast it all off and face life as it is. I often realize the apparent priggishness and silliness of this diary, but I at least try to be sincere sometimes, and after the shocks of the realization of life I may write as a man. Things cannot go on as they have been doing. Circumstances will force me to sink or swim, either to rise from this slough and weakness or collapse utterly, and this knowledge will help me. I may be silent for a long time now, because I am about to cast off my romantic youth and be a man, and the break will appear more sudden than it is. Up to now this diary does not show the vast progress towards disillusioned manhood I have taken. In reality they are so big that I have at times bridged the gulf and said, “All is illusion.” I have felt the utter pettiness of this struggle and seen things from the impersonal and even transcendental viewpoint. The difficulty is, after making the jump, to come back to where I left off and take up the daily struggle. It is hard after realizing that finally one will say, “All is illusion, whether it be worldly success--money and honor, or artistic success and the personal satisfaction of work well done.” However, I must come back in order to live at all, and if I find it too much and after repeated attempts some day give it up as hopeless, then it will be necessary to take the jump at once from youth to death and leave out what comes in between.

=New York, September 27, 1913.= Suicide again presenting itself as the only way out, I was prompted to read over my diaries. As a result my sense of humor caused me to destroy the first one, dating from 1905, my fifteenth year. Full of childish struggles and events, at least until my eighteenth year, I could not let it live after my death. After my eighteenth year in New York, I began to face reality, but yet I could not allow even that part of the record to survive.

True, from my fifteenth year I have been in a bad way, but until several years ago a solution seemed bound to come. Suicide never entered my thoughts in those days.

Sex worried me, however, from fourteenth or fifteenth year. Mentally, only until my twentieth, but thinking without acting didn’t strengthen me.

However as this is a sort of last testament I must not waste time on those days. I hardly know how to begin and what to say, but something seems necessary.

I could not write the greater part of this even now, because I have realized since that it is altogether foreign to the spirit prevailing among the Anglo-Saxon, so-called, at least, and I myself am sufficiently contaminated with their spirit to feel cynical about it.

If these writings do come to print I can imagine cynical and damn foolish newspapermen writing about weaklings and degenerates in line with silly editorial in New York _Times_ recently about suicide and another in the _World_ on occasion of suicide of a girl who was tired of 20 cent dinners, to say nothing about those arch idiots and hypocrites, the Hearst hirelings with their talks about the idle rich and the good thing it is most of us have to work for little.

Of course, I do not compare myself to the average man. If I had no sense of humor I would have persisted and made myself a genius in spite of the hell life has been. Nietzsche could never have been if he was born in England or the States.

But I only feel at home when I read men of genius. Always without a friend, the average man is a stranger to me. Women have killed me, because with all my temperament and passion I have been too shy to ever have any love or outlet to my passion.

It is hard to say that if things had been different that such and such would be the case. Sometimes I have thought absolutely sincerely that if I had had enough money to be able to dispense with the daily grind, which, with its necessity of strong excitement as a reaction, has so impaired my will-power as to bring me from supreme egoism of imagining and believing myself to be a genius to a miserable death alone and away from home by my own hand.

At other times I have said that if I question myself honestly that with money I would have simply degenerated into a good for nothing vicious idler of the Thaw class.

Now, when about to die, I will be honest and say that the latter would have probably been the outcome, but it is by no means certain. After all I have been outraged and disgusted in the past after every fall from a certain standard and my love of books does die while I live. Who knows but that I might have got down to study and work and done something? Undoubtedly, I would have had affairs with women (had time and money permitted) under any circumstances, but drink and drug has never appealed to me, even in imagination.

I have been honest and sincere, particularly to the fine point on matters of honor, at least until I began to lose my grip on life. While I never got down and faced things, it was because I was incurably romantic, and when I finally began to realize life it came to me in such a series of shocks that independence would have probably made me a Baudelaire, without his creative work to balance the scale. With such an impractical, childish mother and failure of a father, uncongenial brothers and sisters, almost hating each other, with bad heredity on both sides and a hellish environment, a shy nervous, suspicious disposition, extremes of ecstasy and despair, ungratified passions, alone and friendless, how could I end otherwise than a suicide?