Abstract
Though lives rarely have the conformity of entire plays, there are possible subdivisions corresponding to the acts of a play. A cycle or constellation of events separates itself from the general clutter--and since it can be classified, we can note its subsidence. The curtain descends upon a partial close, a converging or resolution of some factors. As I said farewell at the station, expressing my hopes of Florence's return in words which formally concealed the permanence of our adieu, I felt that the fundamental concerns of several years had been rounded off and finished. It was because of Florence that I had gone into this section of the country and attempted to reconstruct a new manner of living--so Florence had been primarily the force holding me here. She made me live as though there was a score I had to settle and as though living was a revenge. My fear of her had been the beacon for me to steer by. But now many conditions which I had schooled myself to cope with, were reversed. I had been pushing against a great weight--and with this weight gone, I fell forward. While her train hurried down the valley, I experienced such gloom as terrified me. For even a life of bitter ness was desirable compared with a life without purpose. "You have no reason," I whispered to myself, "for doing any single thing."
Then with clownishness, I marched precisely, turning the words into a military march, making the tune to fit at random, and centering my thoughts upon this arbitrarily invented conduct.1