The sound of the wind is very loud in this house. The curtains fly—there are strange pointed shadows—full of meaning—and a glittering light upon the mirrors. Now it is dark—and one feels so pale—even one's hands feel pale—and now a wandering broken light is over everything. It is so exciting—so tiring, too—one is waiting for something to happen. One is not oneself at all in this weather—one is a being possessed—caught in the whirl of it—walking about very lightly—blowing about—and deeply, deeply excited…. Do you feel that, too? I feel one might say anything—do anything—wreck one's own life wreck another's. What does it matter? Everything is flying fast. Everything is on the wing.

On Bank Holiday, mingling with the crowd I saw a magnificent sailor outside a public house. He was a cripple; his legs were crushed, but his head was beautiful—youthful and proud. On his bare chest two seagulls fighting were tatooed in red and blue. And he seemed to lift himself—above the crowd, above the tumbling wave of people and he sang:

“Heart of mine, Summer is waning.”

Oh! Heavens, I shall never forget how he looked and how he sang. I knew at the time this is one of the things one will always remember. It clutched my heart. It flies on the wind to-day—one of those voices, you know, crying above the talk and the laughter and the dust and the toys to sell. Life is wonderful—wonderful—bittersweet, an anguish and a joy—and Oh! I do not want to be resigned—I want to drink deeply—deeply. Shall I ever be able to express it?