From his journal:
Nov. 8, 1838
Let me never fall into
the vulgar mistake
of dreaming that I am persecuted
whenever I am contradicted.
[I, what do I do? I contradict everyone in my head. And then I contradict myself. ‘Existential solitude’?! Ha. I know no intellectuals (in the flesh), or, at least, no one (as far as I know) reading what I’m reading, thinking with the authors I’m thinking with. This is no excuse. But I… I trust myself very little. My thoughts are agitated, sensitive; if anything is sure, it’s a few feelings, the words for which I typically lack.]
No man, I think,
had ever a greater well being
with a less desert
than I.
[I cannot say the same. But I admire E’s confidence here.]
I can very well afford
to be accounted
bad or foolish
by a few dozen or a few hundred persons—
I who see myself greeted
by the good expectation
of so many friends
far beyond any power of thought
or communication of thought
residing in me.
[We sense, but we don’t know. We know, but we don’t know. There is a feeling, and the essential thing is how we serve it, how responsible we are to it, in our everday lives, in our smallest acts. And, importantly, how willing we are to suffer for it, — will we remain loyal when we are most tempted to renounce, on the days and in the hours when we feel its weight the most; in our darkest moments, when it costs us the most, how do we respond to it?]
Besides, I own,
I am often inclined
to take part with those
who say I am bad or foolish,
for I fear I am both.
[I’ll say in French: tout le monde l’est. Et ce qui importe, c’est de le savoir, et de faire des efforts pour ne pas l’être, ou plutôt de l’être moins, parce qu’on est humain.] [‘Everyone is. And what matters is knowing it, and to make efforts to not be, or rather to be so less, because we’re human.]
I believe and know
there must be
a perfect compensation.
[‘Nothing is got for nothing.’]
I know too well
my own dark spots.
Not having
myself attained,
not satisfied myself,
far from a holy obedience—
how can I expect to satisfy others,
to command their love?
[‘But how can he expect that others should… for who himself will take no heed at all?’]
A few sour faces,
a few biting paragraphs—
is but a cheap expiation
for all these shortcomings of mine.
[To ‘know how to estimate a sour face’, ça vaut la peine. How many I offer up every day, and there’s nothing but a stupid haste or anxiety behind – we’re not so deep (or mean) as that!
*
Nov. 9, 1838
I find no good lives.
I would live well.
I seem to be free to do so,
yet I think with very little respect
of my way of living;
it is weak,
partial,
not full
and not progressive.
But I do not see any other
that suits me better.
The scholars are shiftless
and the merchants are dull.
[As loyal as we are to our best thoughts,
the feelings that stir and move us the most,
the image of our heart,
the hints and nods of the soul,
how we treat ourselves when we’re suffering the most,
how we find our balance again,
our willingness to accept ourselves,
fumbling and grasping as we are,
awkward imperfect near-animals;
how we resist our worst thoughts,
the shallowness and evasions that come and pile on,
suffocate and overwhelm;
how we resist our inherent barbarism,
the meanness that not one of us is free from;
how we get up and go on.]
Gray Haskins 