my being here is rather a sacrifice and incongruity. My thought is only to become like yourself ; if there is anything between you and me, it might be that I hope to grow plainer. Do you call that eccentricity?
I am in truth a spiritual exile, not because I have no friend, but because I lost somewhere a tradition and environment to which I think I should belong. And I hear the voice calling from a hidden world where more than one moon ever shine; alas, I do not know how to come there.
The other day my friend told me about his friend who ceased to be a poet when he grew fat. Oh where is a really great fat poet? And again where is a really great fat artist? Here turning over the pages of the catalogue of the Academy Exhibition, I can tell you the physiques of the artists from their pictures; many of them are quite fat, are they not?
If I fail to make me understood by the present Japanese, that might be from the fact
