and pigeon-holed, but that it should become a cell of the writer's
soul, respond to his pulse, be animated by his vital forces.

Now, in my present state, I have lost my hold on melody in some way
or other; my creative intellectual power has struck work; and when
I try to exercise it, I can only produce vague textures of
modulated thoughts--things melodious in themselves, but ineffective
because they are isolated effects, instead of effects emphasising
points, crises, climaxes. I have strained some mental muscle, I
suppose; but the unhappy part of the situation is that I have not
lost the desire to use it.

It would be a piece of good fortune for me now if I could fall in
with some vigorous mind who could give me a lead, indicate a
subject. But then the work that resulted would miss unity, I think.
What I ought to be content to do is to garner more impressions; but
I seem to be surfeited of impressions.



December 10, 1888.


To-day I stumbled upon one of my old childish books--Grimm's
Household Stories. I am ashamed to say how long I read it. These
old tales, which I used to read as transcripts of marvellous and
ancient facts, have, many of them, gained for me, through
experience of life, a beautiful and symbolical value; one in
particular, the tale of Karl Katz.