It is all memories now—radiant, marvellous, faraway memories of happiness. Ah, how terrible life can be! I sometimes see an immense wall of black rock, shining, in a place—just after death perhaps—and smiling—the adamant of desire. Let us live on memories, then, and when the time comes, let us live so fully that the memories are no nearer than faraway mountains.

My “Eternity” seemed perfect rubbish. I'll send it if you like. It seemed to go out as I wrote and I raked ashes.