April 18 — Evening.
In sand lot near foot of Van Ness avenue.

I’m writing by the light of the burning city. The fire is still twenty blocks from my house, but we came out here to spend the night because we have been afraid since the first earthquake shock. Then, the house swayed and creaked and trembled; rose and fell like a ship in a tempest. I couldn’t walk on the floor at all — had to crawl to the door on my hands and knees. Just as I opened the door my big plaster cast of “The Winged Victory” fell from her pedestal and smashed on the floor. She made a big heap of rubbish. I was too terrified to think. I tried to call to the Dixons, but couldn’t articulate. They didn’t hear a sound from me throughout those terrible forty seconds. I thought it was the end — but neither the beautiful dreams nor the horrors that are supposed to panorama instant death came to me.

My heart beat double quick somewhere up in my throat. I felt nauseated. But I managed to save my toppling mirror; saved it while all other breakable objects in my room went smash. I held on to it with one hand and braced myself against the door frame with the other and watched the crystal scent bottles slide off and spill their precious fragrance on the drunken floor; my statuette of Psyche fell from her shelf and broke her head off. But my little Aztec idol Huitzpochitle took his tumble like a valiant god-of-war without a scratch. He rolled about on the floor in an undignified way but her never changed expression.

The final jerk almost upset the bureau on top of me, but after that my house rocked regularly for awhile like a swing when you “let the old cat die.” I felt the ease which followed the cessation of great pain. When I felt quite sure that the floor was firm under my feet again I went out on the balcony. A cloud of dust rose from the city as though a race of giants were shaking their great carpet. Almost all the chimneys were down. Almost instantly columns of smoke began to rise from the other side of town.

We dressed. When we wanted to wash we found there was no water. Next, we hurried down town to see if Maynard Dixon’s studio was all right. On Union street the cable slot looked as if it had been run through a Chinese wash house fluting machine.

We had to walk, there being no cars.

In the Latin Quarter the streets were full of terrified people all crowding to keep in the middle of the street. It was the quietest crowd I was ever in. Scarcely any one spoke. The children didn’t cry. The fear of God was upon us all. Everyone was afraid of another shock.