Not a proper literary work; he could not do that, he had no talent for it.

But he would represent the Lord as He lived, he would inweave his whole soul with the being of his Saviour so that he might have a friend in the cell.
Then perhaps his terrors would vanish.

In former days it had pleased him, so to speak, to write away an anxiety from his heart, not in letters to others, but only for himself.

Many things which were not clear to him, which he found incomprehensible--with pen in hand he succeeded in making clearer to his inward eye, so that vague pictures almost assumed corporeal shape.

He had in that fashion created many comrades and many companions during his wanderings in strange lands when he was afraid.