October 1921

I wonder why it should be so very difficult to be humble. I do not think I am a good writer; I realize my faults better than anyone else could realize them. I know exactly where I fail. And yet, when I have finished a story and before I have begun another, I catch myself preening my feathers. It is dishearten- ing. There seems to be some bad old pride in my heart ; a root of it that puts out a thick shoot on the slightest provocation. . . . This interferes very much with work. One can't be calm, clear, good as one must be, while it goes on. I look at the mountains, I try to pray and I think of something clever. It's a kind of excitement within, which shouldn't be there. Calm yourself. Clear yourself. And anything that I write in this mood will be no good ; it will be full of sediment. If I were well, I would go off by myself somewhere and sit under a tree. One must learn, one must practise, to forget one- self. I can't tell the truth about Aunt Anne unless I am free to look into her life without self-consciousness. Oh God ! I am divided still. I am bad. I fail in my per- sonal life. I lapse into impatience, temper, vanity, and so I fail as thy priest. Perhaps poetry will help. I have just thoroughly cleaned and attended to my fountain pen. If after this it leaks, then it is no gentle- man!