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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
134
V.
A
long
time
since
I
wrote
in
this
book.
In
September
I
caught
a
cold,
which
meant
three
weeks'
illness.
I
have
not
been
suffering;
merely
feverish
and
weak
and
unable
to
use
my
mind
for
anything
but
a
daily
hour
or
two
of
the
lightest
reading.
The
weather
has
not
favoured
my
recovery,
wet
winds
often
blowing,
and
not
much
sun.
Lying
in
bed,
I
have
watched
the
sky,
studied
the
clouds,
which--so
long
as
they
are
clouds
indeed,
and
not
a
mere
waste
of
grey
vapour--always
have
their
beauty.
Inability
to
read
has
always
been
my
horror;
once,
a
trouble
of
the
eyes
all
but
drove
me
mad
with
fear
of
blindness;
but
I
find
that
in
my
present
circumstances,
in
my
own
still
house,
with
no
intrusion
to
be
dreaded,
with
no
task
or
care
to
worry
me,
I
can
fleet
the
time
not
unpleasantly
even
without
help
of
books.
Reverie,
unknown
to
me
in
the
days
of
bondage,
has
brought
me
solace;
I
hope
it
has
a
little
advanced
me
in
wisdom.
For
not,
surely,
by
deliberate
effort
of
thought
does
a
man
grow
wise.
The
truths
of
life
are
not
discovered
by
us.
At
moments
unforeseen,
some
gracious
influence
descends
upon
the
soul,
touching
it
to
an
emotion
which,
we
know
not
how,
the
mind
transmutes
into
thought.
This
can
happen
only
in
a
calm
of
the
senses,
a
surrender
of
the
whole
being
to
passionless
contemplation.
I
understand,
now,
the
intellectual
mood
of
the
quietist.
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