But what is to become of all these diaries, I asked myself yesterday. If I died, what would Leo make of them? He would be disinclined to burn them; he could not publish them. Well, he should make up a book from them, I think; and then burn the body. I daresay there is a little book in them; if the scraps and scratches were straightened out a little. God knows. This is dictated by a slight melancholia, which comes upon me sometimes now, and makes me think I am old; I am ugly; I am repeating things. Yet, as far as I know, as a writer I am only now writing out my mind.