I will read it! And how much more it will mean to me now!
I suppose you know the theory about vibrations—how if a little push is given a bridge, and repeated often enough at the right intervals, the bridge will fall?
Well, that’s the whole secret of what you have been looking for—what you found in my poems.
I don’t understand.
A man’s life is a rhythm. Eating, sleeping, working, playing, loving, thinking—everything. And when we live so that each activity comes at the right interval, we gain power. When one interrupts another, we lose. Weakness is merely the thrust of one impulse against another, instead of their combined thrust against the world. When I came here, feeling like a criminal, I was obeying the one right instinct in a welter of emotions. It was like the faintest of heart beats in a sick body. I listened to that. Then I learned physical hunger, then sleep, and so on. It’s incredible how stupid I was about the elemental art of living! I had to begin all over from the beginning, as if no one had ever lived before.
That’s what you meant in your poems about religion.
Exactly! I learned that “good” is the rhythm of the man’s personal nature, and that “evil” is merely the confusion of the same impulses. As time went on it became instinctive to live for and by the rhythm. Everything about my life here was caught up and used in the vision of power—drawing water, cutting wood, digging in the garden, dawn. It was all marvelous—I couldn’t help writing those poems. They are the natural joys and sorrows of ten years. As a matter of fact, though, I grew to care less and less about writing, as living became fuller and richer. People write too much. They would write less if they had to make the fire in the morning.
The first impulse ... I see. Oh, life might be so simple!
Why not? The animals have it. Men have it at times, but we make each other forget. If we could only be each other’s reminders instead of forgetters!
Yes! But I see the only thing to do is to go away, like you.