Not one of us, it appeared, ever cried because of some imperative inward need.  Tears are nature’s gift to us.  It is our own affair whether we squander or economise their use.

Of all our confessions Sophie Harden’s was the strangest.  To her, tears were a kind of erotic by-play, which added to the enjoyment of conjugal life.  Her husband, a good-natured creature, always believed he was to blame, and she never enlightened him on the point.

Most of the others owned that they had recourse to tears to work themselves up when they wanted to make a scene.  But Astrid Bagge, a gentle, quiet housewife and mother, declared she kept all her troubles for the evenings when her husband dined at the volunteer’s mess, because he hated to see anyone crying.  Then she sat alone and in darkness and wept away the accumulated annoyances of the week.

When it came to my turn, I spoke the truth by chance when I said that, however much I wanted to cry, I only permitted myself the luxury about once in two years.  I think my complexion is a conclusive proof that my words were sincere.

There are deserts which never know the refreshment of dew or rain.  My life has been such a desert.

I, who like to receive confidences, have a morbid fear of giving them.  Perhaps it is because I was so much alone, so self-centred, in my childhood.

The more I reflect upon life, the more clearly I see that I have not laid out my talents to the best advantage.  I have no sweet memories of infidelity; I have lived irreproachably—­and now I am very tired.

I sit here and write for myself alone.  I know that no one else will ever read my words; and yet I am not quite sincere, even with myself.

Life has passed me by; my hands are empty; now it is too late.

Once happiness knocked at my door, and I, poor fool, did not rise to welcome it.

I envy every country wench or servant girl who goes off with a lover.  But I sit here waiting for old age.

Astrid Bagge....  As I write her name, I feel as though she were standing weeping behind my back; I feel her tears dropping on my neck.  I cannot weep—­but how I long for tears!

* * * * *

Autumn!  Torp has made a huge fire of logs in the open grate.  The burning wood gives out an intoxicating perfume and fills the house with cosey warmth.  For want of something better to do I am looking after the fire myself.  I carefully strip the bark from each log before throwing it on the flames.  The smell of burning birch-bark goes to my head like strong wine.  Dreams come and go.

Joergen Malthe, what a mere boy you are!

* * * * *

The garden looks like a neglected churchyard, forgotten of the living.  The virginia creeper falls in blood-red streamers from the verandah.  The snails drag themselves along in the rain; their slow movements remind me of women enceinte.  The hedge is covered with spiders’ webs, and the wet clay sticks to one’s shoes as one walks on the paths.