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March 10, 1941 after the reception at the one-man show

The day is calm again, and one pauses, for no other reason than to gather self and action and word, and begins to ask: what has been gained, lost, found, relinquished? what has been forgotten, what has been fused into his very being?
Once when he was young and afraid of many things, he saw an island of people walking in self-importance to and fro, and he knew he had to assert himself; he read of the big city, in which were found many superior people: he had to live there and by struggling [[strikethrough]] re gained [[/strikethrough]] gain the friendship of those he admired. And he read [[strikethrough]] in [[/strikethrough]] of great things in America, [[strikethrough]] ,,,[[/strikethrough]] of great art and great music and great poems, and he knew he had to understand them and appreciate them fully. And so he was a dreamer; [[strikethrough]] he [[/strikethrough]] and he lived for the future, when he would be a vital part of the people and of the things and of the places of which he dreamt.
Then there were the terrors of living; the nameless fears of people, the distrust of [[strikethrough]] mood [[/strikethrough]] inspirations [[strikethrough]] inside [[/strikethrough]] and moods, the confusion of logic, the deceit of formal learnings, the pitfalls of self pity and the [[strikethrough]] inspiring [[/strikethrough]] accusations of the days weakly lived, of the thoughts weekly conceived.
There were glad days: discoveries, explorations, revelations; new bays and new land and golden beaches; the self shining in the morning sun by the sea; the glorious meanings in the wind, in the storm.