I am so crazy about reading that I can’t let a book drop until I see its end, even if it is as dull as a cookery recipe.
I have written a good deal since coming home and am slowly but I think surely, climbing up the ladder. I think my recent work is much better than any I have yet done. I study hard and struggle to improve.
How I love my work. I seem to grow more and more wrapped up in it as the days pass and other hopes and interests fail me. Nearly everything I think or do or say is subordinated to a desire to improve my work. I study people and events for that, I think and speculate and read for that.
I have no doubt that it is a wise ordinance of fate — or Providence? — that I cannot get all the books I want or I should certainly never accomplish much. I am simply a “book drunkard.” Books have the same irresistible temptation for me that liquor has for its devotee. I cannot withstand them.
Dear old world, you are very beautiful and I love you well.
Oh, as long as we can work we can make life beautiful! And life is beautiful in spite of all its sorrow and care.
I also re-read “King Solomon’s Mines” lately. I always liked it because it was so full of adventure and I do love that with a love that has outlived childhood. What care I if it be “wild and improbable” and “lacking in literary art”? I refuse to be any longer hampered in my likes and dislikes by such cannons of criticism. The one essential thing I demand of a book is that it should interest me. If it does, I forgive it any every other fault.