He has an enormous superfluity of vital energy, and if it isn't employed, it strikes its fangs into him.

He gets out of spirits as he was at Havre.

Nobody understands exactly why--except me who am in the inside of him and hear him breathe.
For the peculiarity of our relation is, that even when he's displeased with me, he thinks aloud with me and can't stop himself.

And I know ultimately that whatever takes him out of a certain circle (where habits of introvision and analysis of fly-legs are morbidly exercised), is life and joy to him.

I wanted his poems done this winter very much--and here was a bright room with three windows consecrated to use.