In certain favorable moods, memories -- what one has forgotten -- come to the top. now if this is so, is it not possible -- i often wonder -- that things we have felt with great intensity have an existence independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence? and if so, will it not be possible, in time, that some device will be invented by which we can tap them?
If behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people readingfor the love of reading, slowly and unprofessionally, and judging with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this not improve the quality of his work? and if by our means books were to become stronger, richer, and more varied, that would be an end worth reaching.
Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. we know not what comes next, or what follows after. thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.
Waves of hands, hesitations at street corners, someone dropping a cigarette into the gutter-all are stories. but which is the true story? that i do not know. hence i keep my phrases hung like clothes in a cupboard, waiting for some one to wear them. thus waiting, thus speculating, making this note and then an· other i do not cling to life. i shall be brushed like a bee from a sunflower. my philosophy, always accumulating, welling up moment by moment, runs like quicksilver a dozen ways at once.