My Books Were Always Full Of Ink

Through The Study Of Fossils I Had Already Been Initiated Into The Mysteries Of Prehistoric Creations.

My Books Were Always Full Of Ink Blots, Always Stained And Covered With Smeared Sketches And Pictures, Which One Draws Idly When His Attention Wanders From His Task.

I Am Surprised That I Cannot Recall Whether My Desire To Become A Minister Transformed Itself Into A Wish To Lead The More Militant Life Of Missionary, By A Slow Process Or Suddenly.

I Still Held Fast To My Determination To Become A Minister; It Still Seemed To Me That That Was My Duty. I Had Pledged Myself, In My Prayers I Had Given My Word To God. How Could I Therefore Break My Vow?

I Recall Feeling An Almost Delicious Terror When One Day I Found Myself Alone In The Midst Of Tall June Grasses That Grew High As My Head. But Here The Secret Working Of Self Consciousness Is Almost Too Entangled With The Things Of The Past For Me To Explain It.