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look at； terrible and impotent rage； bitterness and scorn； anguish
that wept aloud； misery that could find no voice； sorrow that was
dumb。 I have passed through every possible mood of suffering。
Better than Wordsworth himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he
said …
'Suffering is permanent； obscure； and dark
And has the nature of infinity。'
But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my
sufferings were to be endless； I could not bear them to be without
meaning。 Now I find hidden somewhere away in my nature something
that tells me that nothing in the whole world is meaningless； and
suffering least of all。 That something hidden away in my nature；
like a treasure in a field； is Humility。
It is the last thing left in me； and the best： the ultimate
discovery at which I have arrived； the starting…point for a fresh
development。 It has come to me right out of myself； so I know that
it has come at the proper time。 It could not have come before； nor
later。 Had any one told me of it； I would have rejected it。 Had
it been brought to me； I would have refused it。 As I found it； I
want to keep it。 I must do so。 It is the one thing that has in it
the elements of life； of a new life； VITA NUOVA for me。 Of all
things it is the strangest。 One cannot acquire it； except by
surrendering everything that one has。 It is only when one has lost
all things； that one knows that one possesses it。
Now I have realised that it is in me； I see quite clearly what I
ought to do； in fact； must do。 And when I use such a phrase as
that； I need not say that I am not alluding to any external
sanction or command。 I admit none。 I am far more of an
individualist than I ever was。 Nothing seems to me of the smallest
value except what one gets out of oneself。 My nature is seeking a
fresh mode of self…realisation。 That is all I am concerned with。
And the first thing that I have got to do is to free myself from
any possible bitterness of feeling against the world。
I am completely penniless； and absolutely homeless。 Yet there are
worse things in the world than that。 I am quite candid when I say
that rather than go out from this prison with bitterness in my
heart against the world； I would gladly and readily beg my bread
from door to door。 If I got nothing from the house of the rich I
would get something at the house of the poor。 Those who have much
are often greedy； those who have little always share。 I would not
a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer； and when winter
came on sheltering myself by the warm close…thatched rick； or under
the penthouse of a great barn； provided I had love in my heart。
The external things of life seem to me now of no importance at all。
You can see to what intensity of individualism I have arrived … or
am arriving rather； for the journey is long； and 'where I walk
there are thorns。'
Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my
lot； and that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night…time it will
be to write sonnets to the moon。 When I go out of prison； R… will
be waiting for me on the other side of the big iron…studded gate；
and he is the symbol； not merely of his own affection； but of the
affection of many others besides。 I believe I am to have enough to
live on for about eighteen months at any rate； so that if I may not
write beautiful books； I may at least read beautiful books； and
what joy can be greater？ After that； I hope to be able to recreate
my creative faculty。
But were things different： had I not a friend left in the world；
were there not a single house open to me in pity； had I to accept
the wallet and ragged cloak of sheer penury： as long as I am free
from all resentment； hardness and scorn； I would be able to face
the life with much more calm and confidence than I would were my
body in purple and fine linen； and the soul within me sick with
hate。
And I really shall have no difficulty。 When you really want love
you will find it waiting for you。
I need not say that my task does not end there。 It would be
comparatively easy if it did。 There is much more before me。 I
have hills far steeper to climb； valleys much darker to pass
through。 And I have to get it all out of myself。 Neither
religion； morality； nor reason can help me at all。
Morality does not help me。 I am a born antinomian。 I am one of
those who are made for exceptions； not for laws。 But while I see
that there is nothing wrong in what one does； I see that there is
something wrong in what one becomes。 It is well to have learned
that。
Religion does not help me。 The faith that others give to what is
unseen； I give to what one can touch； and look at。 My gods dwell
in temples made with hands； and within the circle of actual
experience is my creed made perfect and complete： too complete； it
may be； for like many or all of those who have placed their heaven
in this earth； I have found in it not merely the beauty of heaven；
but the horror of hell also。 When I think about religion at all； I
feel as if I would like to found an order for those who CANNOT
believe： the Confraternity of the Faithless； one might call it；
where on an altar； on which no taper burned； a priest； in whose
heart peace had no dwelling； might celebrate with unblessed bread
and a chalice empty of wine。 Every thing to be true must become a
religion。 And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than
faith。 It has sown its martyrs； it should reap its saints； and
praise God daily for having hidden Himself from man。 But whether
it be faith or agnosticism； it must be nothing external to me。 Its
symbols must be of my own creating。 Only that is spiritual which
makes its own form。 If I may not find its secret within myself； I
shall never find it： if I have not got it already； it will never
come to me。
Reason does not help me。 It tells me that the laws under which I
am convicted are wrong and unjust laws； and the system under which
I have suffered a wrong and unjust system。 But； somehow； I have
got to make both of these things just and right to me。 And exactly
as in Art one is only concerned with what a particular thing is at
a particular moment to oneself； so it is also in the ethical
evolution of one's character。 I have got to make everything that
has happened to me good for me。 The plank bed； the loathsome food；
the hard ropes shredded into oakum till one's finger…tips grow dull
with pain； the menial offices with which each day begins and
finishes； the harsh orders that routine seems to necessitate； the
dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at； the silence；
the solitude； the shame … each and all of these things I have to
transform into a spiritual experience。 There is not a single
degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a
spiritualising of the soul。
I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite
simply； and without affectation that the two great turning…points
in my life were when my father sent me to Oxford； and when society
sent me to prison。 I will not say that prison is the best thing
that could have happened to me： for that phrase would savour of
too great bitterness towards myself。 I would sooner say； or hear
it said of me； that I was so typical a child of my age； that in my
perversity； and for that perversity's sake； I turned the good
things of my life to evil； and the evil things of my life to good。
What is said； however； by myself or by others； matters little。 The
important thing； the thing that lies before me； the thing that I
have to do； if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed；
marred； and incomplete； is to absorb into my nature all that has
been done to me； to make it part of me； to accept it without
complaint； fear； or reluctance。 The supreme vice is shallowness。
Whatever is realised is right。
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and
forget who I was。 It was ruinous advice。 It is only by realising
what I am that I have found comfort of any kind。 Now I am advised
by others to try on my release to forget that I have ever been in a
prison at all。 I know that would be equally fatal。 It would mean
that I would always be haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace；
and that those things that are meant for me as much as for anybody
else … the beauty of the sun and moon； the pageant of the seasons；
the music of daybreak and the silence of great nights； the rain
falling through the leaves； or the dew creeping over the grass and
making it silver … would all be tainted for me； and lose their
healing power； and their power of communicating joy。 To regret
one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development。 To deny
one's