I want to work. This is no vain ideal that I am favoring myself with, no distraction through which I seek to make life more agreeable and time pass more quickly, but a fire that burns in me, a force which compels my obedience and I am only obeying a command which is stronger than myself, even in the face of what may seem discouraging conditions. I cannot stop, I must go on.
Someday people will realize that this is my medium of expression, that it is still possible to say something through sculpture, that a sculptor may yet live again.
I do not complain of difficulties. I am not afraid to face them, the contraire...
I must continue to work. People like my things and if they like them shall I not someday be able to take care of myself? I want to. I expect that of myself, shall respect myself more when I can, but at this moment I seem not to be able to, and I am sad, almost ashamed to ask. ...What more can I say? I want to work, I want to work. I must work. I live for that alone.
Forgive me I beg you for writing like this, for I[']m driven to desperation.
