So again I found myself in the violent ward—­but this time not because of any desire to investigate it.  Art and literature being now more engrossing than my plans for reform, I became, in truth, an unwilling occupant of a room and a ward devoid of even a suggestion of the aesthetic.  The room itself was clean, and under other circumstances might have been cheerful.  It was twelve feet long, seven feet wide, and twelve high.  A cluster of incandescent lights, enclosed in a semi-spherical glass globe, was attached to the ceiling.  The walls were bare and plainly wainscotted, and one large window, barred outside, gave light.  At one side of the door was an opening a foot square with a door of its own which could be unlocked only from without, and through which food could be passed to a supposedly dangerous patient.  Aside from a single bed, the legs of which were screwed to the floor, the room had no furniture.

The attendant, before locking me in, searched me and took from me several lead pencils; but the stub of one escaped his vigilance.  Naturally, to be taken from a handsomely furnished apartment and thrust into such a bare and unattractive room as this caused my already heated blood to approach the boiling point.  Consequently, my first act was to send a note to the physician who regularly had charge of my case, requesting him to visit me as soon as he should arrive, and I have every reason to believe that the note was delivered.  Whether or not this was so, a report of the morning’s fight and my transfer must have reached him by some one of several witnesses.  While waiting for an answer, I busied myself writing, and as I had no stationery I wrote on the walls.  Beginning as high as I could reach, I wrote in columns, each about three feet wide.  Soon the pencil became dull.  But dull pencils are easily sharpened on the whetstone of wit.  Stifling acquired traits, I permitted myself to revert momentarily to a primitive expedient.  I gnawed the wood quite from the pencil, leaving only the graphite core.  With a bit of graphite a hand guided by the unerring insolence of elation may artistically damn all men and things.  That I am inclined to believe I did; and I question whether Raphael or Michael Angelo—­upon whom I then looked as mere predecessors—­ever put more feeling per square foot into their mural masterpieces.  Every little while, as if to punctuate my composition, and in an endeavor to get attention, I viciously kicked the door.

This first fight of the day occurred about 8 A.M.  For the three hours following I was left to thrash about the room and work myself into a frenzy.  I made up my mind to compel attention.  A month earlier, shattered glass had enabled me to accomplish a certain sane purpose.  Again this day it served me.  The opalescent half-globe on the ceiling seemed to be the most vulnerable point for attack.  How to reach and smash it was the next question—­and soon answered.  Taking off my shoes, I threw one with great force at my glass target and succeeded in striking it a destructive blow.