igable, cold control of mind. Even when reading a book I would enter entirely into the psychology of the represented character, and—would you believe it?—grown man that I am, I have wept bitter tears over "Uncle Tom's Cabin." How wonderful this faculty—of the supple, sharpened, cultured mind—that of reincarnation! You live through a thousand lives; now you descend into the darkness of Hades; now you ascend the dear mountain heights; with one glance you observe the infinite universe. If man is destined to become a God, his throne shall be a book. . .

Yes. That is how it is. Incidentally, I wish to make a complaint about the rules here. They put me to bed when I wish to write, when I must write. The doors are permitted to remain open, and I am compelled to listen how some madman bawls. He bawls and he bawls: it is simply unendurable. Here you really can make a man go out of his mind, and then say that he was insane previously. And have they no extra