I have not attracted men's praise--I did not hope to do that.

I have not even attracted their attention.

I have not communicated the least grain of what I feel I _know_.
"Far from looking upon me as a man who at least sees clearer than others, as having a truth of price which they might be glad to learn, they look upon me as a man who has failed even to live life upon their basis, classing me with those utter failures who fail in life because they have no sense of proportion, because they can not comprehend the complex issues among which they have to fight.
"And now I am laid aside, a useless weapon; I am not even physically capable of writing, even if the world would hear me; and I am forced back upon myself, upon a feeble life, necessarily self-centered, to nurse and coddle myself as though I was a poor failing dotard, with one avenue alone--and how precarious!--through which I may perhaps speak my little message to the world--the education of a child to carry on my torch.
"I have written to you my whole mind, not because I want you to reassure me--no, that is impossible; but because I am weak and miserable.

I must unburden myself to some one--must confess that I have indeed broken down.
"And, further, what is the Death, into whose antechamber I have already passed?
Is it indeed true that, as I have so passionately denied, I have fallen into the grasp of a power which is waging an equal war with truth and light and goodness?
Shall I be sacrificed to the struggle, without having made the world a whit better, or richer, or stronger, with the only memory of me a quiet life with few follies and fewer deeds of power, to be laid away in the dark?
"And yet I have a lingering hope that this is a leading too; that I shall somehow emerge.

My dear Chris, come and see me again as soon as you can.