that changes widely and decidedly in the years. This weary unhappiness is not a matter of development.
When I was a child I felt dumbly what I feel now less dumbly. At the age of five I used sometimes to weep silently in the night—I did not know why. It was that I felt my aloneness, my foreignness to all things. I felt the heavy, heavy weight of life—and I was only five.
I was only five, and it seems a thousand years ago. But sometimes back through the long, winding, unused passages of my mind I hear that silent sobbing of the child and the unarmed wailing of a tiny, tired soul.
It mingles with the bitter Nothingness of the grown young woman, and oh, with it all—with it all I am so unhappy!
There is something subtly Scotch in all this.
But Scotch or Indian or Japanese, there is no stopping of the pain.
