BUT yes. It all matters, whether or no. Nature is one long battle, and the never-ending perishing of the weak. I must grind and grind away. I have no choice. And I must know that I grind.
Fool, genius, young lonely woman—I must go round and round in the life within, for how many years the Devil knows. After that my soul must go round and round, for how many centuries the Devil knows.
What a master-mind is that of the Devil! The world is a wondrous scheme. For me it is a scheme that is black with woe. But there may be in the world some one who finds it beautiful Real Life.
I wonder as I write this Portrayal if there will be one person to read it and see a thing that is mingled with every word. It is something that you must feel, that must fascinate you, the like of which you have never before met with.
It is the unparalleled individuality of me.
I wish I might write it in so many words of English. But that is not possible. If I have put it in every word and if you feel it and are fascinated, then I have done very well.
I am marvelously clever if I have done so.
I know that I am marvelously clever. But I have need of all my peculiar genius to show you my individuality—my aloneness.
I am alone out on my sand and barrenness. I should be alone if my sand and barrenness were crowded with a thousand people each filled with melting sympathy for me—though it would be unspeakably sweet.
People say of me, "She's peculiar." They do not understand me. If they did they would say so oftener and with emphasis.
And so I try to put my individuality in the quality of my diction, in my method of handling words.
My conversation plainly shows this individuality—more than shows it, indeed. My conversation hurls it violently at people's heads. My conversation—when I choose—makes people turn around in their chairs and stare and give me all of their attention. They admire me, though their admiration is mixed decidedly with other feelings.
I like to be admired.
It soothes my vanity.
When you read this Portrayal you will admire me. You will surely have to admire me.
And so this is life, and everything matters.
But just now I will stop writing and go downstairs to my dinner. There is a porterhouse steak, broiled rare, and some green young onions. Oh, they are good! And when one is to have a porterhouse steak for one's dinner—and some green young onions, one doesn't give a tupenny dam whether anything else matters or not.