The Journal, like a well-meant New Year’s resolution, has been forgotten. The writer is tired and his brain is stubborn. The discipline he has demanded of his students is lacking in himself. Sorting through, classifying, scrutinizing every thought and stray emotion is as disinteresting as it is difficult. The Journal is to the mind what a usage book is to language; sometimes prescribing, sometimes describing, always chronicling.
He writes at times for need, at times duty; but it must ever be honest, unfeigned. Truth may not always prevail, but only because this mutable man cannot always see truth. But he can see what he can see, so it at very least must exist in observation.
The journal – a proving ground for thoughts.
