I don’t know whether that is so, and I am not quite clear how I am to blame, but when I compare myself with you something of the kind does appear before me; it is as if we both tried too hard, too noisily, too childishly, and with too little experience to gain something that can easily and quietly be had with, for instance, Frieda’s calm and Frieda’s objectivity, but we tried to get it by weeping and scratching and tugging, just as a child tugs at the tablecloth but cannot get it, merely sweeps all the beautiful things off the table and puts them out of reach forever—I
