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24

Erie, Pa.,
January 24-31, 1926.

This week has been so crammed full that I have not had time to write in my journal. So now I shall merely record the salient points. First of all, I decided after a much more thorough consideration, that it would not be well for me to live at the Stevens due in great part to the time it would take to get back and forth to the plant, and in small part, to the sacrifice of absolute independence that I now have. Went to the Macloskies last Sunday with Marshall Henshaw and found them very nice people with a beautiful new home but on first meeting, not awfully interesting although Adeline impressed me as having possibilities along that line.

Mr. Dutton's sermons are a delight to me and it seems criminal that such a man can be delivering such a message week after week to a mere handfull of people. He has been dealing with the truth about American history in his evening sermons lately, and the subject brings me face to face with a problem of my own regarding facing the truth. I have a tendency to be dishonest with myself about things, thinking it virtuous to be so under some circumstances. For instance, I am very prone to say to myself that people are lovely, flawless in my opinion, when actually in my inmost mind, I know perfectly well I don't think any such thing. Is it better to tell one's self that everyone is perfection (secretly knowing one doesn't think so) or to be frank with ones self about them? For example, in my inmost heart, I didn't like the way Mrs, Stevens emphasized several times "and your room and your breakfast [[underlined]] free [[/underlined]]." I didn't like it. It grated. It disappointed. And yet, because I so appreciated her kind offer, I told myself what I well knew was untrue, that such decided emphasis wasn't unpleasant to me. And so I'm reaching the conclusion that the truth in all things is the end to be sought, letting that truth, whatever it may be, speak for itself. And all this is leading me to a great questioning of the purpose of life. For what purpose are we here? What is it all about anyhow? I'm convinced that whatever I conclude eventually, I shall want to pursue culture, and all manner of mature thought, for I believe that through these things alone, will I finally find what I'm looking for. I'm coming to see my life as a romance, just realizing what a romance it is, and what it can be if I make the most of it. I'm learning to think. It makes me happy to find that I am so soon maturing, and not beginning to think late in life. I read in the paper that three men are electrocuted today. Into the world they came, played a part, walked across the stage, and then suddenly they go because they made a mess of their part. Why were they here, their lives apparently so futile? Gone, forgotten, where and why? In my present mood, I'm thrilling at life and wondering at it. I'm just about to learn to live, I hope.