January 29.
AS I read over now and then what I have written of my Portrayal I have alternate periods of hope and despair. At times I think I am succeeding admirably—and again, what I have written compared to what I have felt seems vapid and tame. Who has not felt the futility of words when one would express feelings?
I take this hope and despair as another mark of genius. Genius, apart from natural sensitiveness, is prone equally to unreasoning joy and to bitterest morbidness.
I am more than fond of writing, though I have hours when I can not write any more than I could paint a picture, or play Wagner as it should be played.
I think my style of writing has a wonderful intensity in it, and it is admirably suited to the creature it por-
