Elsa Kassandra

The Little Review, 13 (1929)

Letter to Margaret Anderson and jean heap, from Berlin, posthumous

My heart is abode of terror and a snakethey stare at each other, always, even when asleep I carry it around, I harbour it like embryo in wombit grows. Is it the spiritual cancer that I am to die of ? My mother perished from physical disease. She waited too long. Am I to wait too long ? Suicide is more decent ! I am not afraid of death. Ah not ! It is my homesweetas I always saidsince longsince I have become wise. Yet I am scaredlike snake victim. I feel it not belonging to menot my waybut where is my way ! See, maybe I will get acquainted with it, gradually it will stroke me, as nice and familiar, even petting me and it will be my door to home. I am buried aliveI fear bed for spectre shape enters with methere it has leisure to torture, tweak, pommel me, weaken my heart, pounding on it, pounding, pounding, pounding, until I sleep in faint. In morning it is stiff, heavy in meeven for suicide one has to arrange, to go up, to lie down forewer (sic.

You will love, even over my possible destruction, as over this letterwhich would be sin if it were not written in holy purposeirrepressible anguishcryas Christ’s in Gethsemane (I understand that now !) But I never, never thought I were Christ. I hate Christthat is I did hate himthat is I was suspicious, perhaps because he is my fate. I hate myself as Christ ! So did he ! Can one tremble, writhe in Gethsemane ? I am shadow-heavy. Yet I love the earth still. . . . . .Consider me a fish that is left on bonedry beach by crazy time’s tide. Put me into the sea again. I will swim again. . .to bring my mother’s noble, precious, highly painful bought blood to houour. I can be Raskolnikow from absolute angle, for I am optimist by nature, not melancholic pessamist as he is.

I have just discovered that I am not, and why I am not made for suicideunless it could be done gailyvictoriouslywith flourish, I think that is death in battle, or tournamentself-destruction by Godbut to act God is weakness and will be punished and can never be stronggay. He punishes his weakness in members weak, he is terrible. I am dead already. Death cannot commit suicide. I am safe. . .

I need, for a few quiet hourshuman sympathytalklovein my terrible plightbecause it is terrific. No joy, no light, not the satisfaction of the pride of my facultiesmy art that carries me. I am beset by great multitudes of small worriesI almost despise myself for the trouble I make and the trouble that troubles me. But what shall I do ? I am stunned nearly to exhaustion. Forgive me, but I am mourning destruction of high qualityas I know myself to beto do my artto live humanly decentbut it is not in your power, I know. I am poor and desertedif I had not to stand the experience of my personmy country is slowly wearing me to ragsbody and spirit. . . .many ants can kill the strongest, proudest life it it is fettered to ant heapas I am to life in Germanyto lifeto terrible poverty and its obligationsone may perish on a formalitywinter approachingrain, hailcold,I on the streetsfreezingto boot, in such weather people do not buy. I wish you would give me some time for comfortonce ! Stroke my handsand give me “cheer up.” Talk with me, listen to me. I am human, and I am not newspaper seller ! I have no more timemust go to sellI should like to laugh with youto be gay, I can be that ! It is my naturethat sounds ghastly now. . .that is the tragedyI still feel deep in me glittering wealth. . .