my solitary habits. I have practically no other pleasure now than through my own head, which is continually busy.
I have frequently played the miser with my thoughts, that is, have kept on saving them up for the future, and been unwilling to publish them. It might be, in this way, that many a one never came to light at all.
L—— was good at heart, only he did not always take the trouble to appear so. My greatest fault this—the cause of al my mortification.
Nothing pains me more in all that I do than the fact that I am compelled to view the world as the common man does, though science tells me all the while that that view is wrong.
Where prudence was superfluous I had it, but where it might have been of use indiscretion set in. Time brings wisdom, I thought to myself, and did nothing-a disposition much more common than is supposed.
One day (being then about fifty years of age), I sent my dear wife from the garden an artificial flower made of autumn leaves of various hues. It was meant to represent me in my then condition, though I didn't say so.
I am extraordinarily sensitive to all kinds of noise; yet it entirely loses its objectionable character as soon as it is associated with some reasonable purpose.
I have frequently indulged in all sorts of fancies for hours together, and at times when people thought I was very busy; I am sensible how detrimental this is as regards loss of time ; yet without some such “fantasy-cure,” which I commonly underwent at the customary season for taking the waters, I should never have become so old.
