Sometimes when I go to town I say to myself, 'I
will not turn at that corner,' but when I come to the corner, I do turn.
Then I say 'I will not go into that bar,' but I do go in. 'I will not
order anything to drink,' I say to myself, and then I hear myself
talking aloud to the barkeeper just as though I were some other person.
'Give me a glass of rye,' I say, and I stand off looking at myself, very
angry and sorrowful. But gradually I seem to grow weaker and weaker--or
rather stronger and stronger--for my brain begins to become clear, and I
see things and feel things I never saw or felt before. I want to sing."
"And you do sing," I said.
"I do, indeed," he responded, laughing, "and it seems to me the most
beautiful music in the world."
"Sometimes," I said, "when I'm on _my_ kind of spree, I try not so much
to empty my mind of the thoughts which bother me, but rather to fill my
mind with other, stronger thoughts----"
Before I could finish he had interrupted:
"Haven't I tried that, too? Don't I think of other things? I think of
bees--and that leads me to honey, doesn't it? And that makes me think of
putting the honey in the wagon and taking it to town. Then, of course, I
think how it will sell.
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