Life Being What It Is, One Dreams

However Depressed I May Be I Am Not In The Habit Of Giving Up A Project Without Having Tried Everything, Even The 'impossible', To Gain My End.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

Perhaps I Have No Talent, But All Vanity Aside - I Do Not Believe That Anyone Makes An Artistic Attempt, No Matter How Small, Without Having A Little - Or There Are Many Fools.

I Am Entering Into The Truth, Into Nature.

Under The Continual Contact With The Pebbles My Feet Have Become Hardened And Used To The Ground. My Body, Almost Constantly Nude, No Longer Suffers From The Sun. Civilization Is Falling From Me Little By Little. I Am Beginning To Think Simply, To Feel Only Very Little Hatred For My Neighbor - Rather, To Love Him.