Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be well enough; but I long to labor and to do something for others.  Yet where and what shall it be?

* * * * *

When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the great and wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder.  And now, although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition.  Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help to make life more beautiful for others.  The thought that I am doing this comforts and sustains me.

* * * * *

My work prospers.  But last winter’s wood is not yet fit for use.  My little pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent, and well seasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has just been torn down.  We work together cheerfully, and our earnings are considerable.

* * * * *

Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open.  Among the masses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness.

The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while the former are obliged to bear them.

* * * * *

The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferable to polite deceit.  They must needs be rough and rude.  If it were not for its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity than does the smoothest surface.

* * * * *

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that a blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for at every step he is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground before he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me?  Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?

* * * * *

I have now been here between two and three years.  I have formed a resolve which it will be difficult to carry out.  I shall go out into the world once more.  I must again behold the scenes of my past life.  I have tested myself severely.

May it not be a love of adventure, that genteel yet vulgar desire to undertake what is unusual or fraught with peril?  Or is it a morbid desire to wander through the world after having died, as it were?

No; far from it.  What can it be?  An intense longing to roam again, if it be only for a few days.  I must kill the desire, lest it kill me.

Whence arises this sudden longing?

Every tool that I use while at work burns my hand.