I AM so Clever. I am the Cleverest human being I know.
I have thought my Cleverness an outer quality, a mountebank's cloak, and as such not belonging in this book of my own self. But there are no outer qualities. Everything in and about me is my own self.
My Cleverness is of high quality—even supernatural, I have thought—and is of unobvious tenors.
To any essentially false nature, such as mine, a quick and positive Cleverness is its needfulest resource in coping with this pushing world. To any un-sanely sensitive nature such as mine Cleverness is its fender against human encounters and onslaughts.
There is no Cleverness in this I write. There is writing skill and my dead-feeling genius. But my Cleverness is beside those points.
I use Cleverness when I encounter people.
Sometimes I like people and wish to impress them.
Always I am vain and sometimes I wish my vanity catered to.
And I can get from people whatever tribute I choose.
I mostly choose to bewilder and half-fascinate which is easiest: I talk about anything, nothing, everything
