But what had I, dear
wise man, to tell you? What, but that life was still tolerable;
still absurdly sweet; still promising, promising, to credulous
idleness;--but step of mine taken in a true direction, or clear
solution of any the least secret,--none whatever. I scribble
always a little,--much less than formerly,--and I did within a
year or eighteen months write a chapter on Fate, which--if we all
live long enough, that is, you, and I, and the chapter--I hope to
send you in fair print. Comfort yourself--as you will--you will
survive the reading, and will be a sure proof that the nut is not
cracked. For when we find out what Fate is, I suppose, the
Sphinx and we are done for; and Sphinx, Oedipus, and world
ought, by good rights, to roll down the steep into the sea.
But I was going to say, my neglect of your request will show you
how little saliency is in my weeks and months. They are hardly
distinguished in memory other than as a running web out of a
loom, a bright stripe for day, a dark stripe for night, and, when
it goes faster, even these run together into endless gray.
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