Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to-day. Why do I write this down? For posterity to take up the threads correctly?-Why?įrom some architectural sense in me which must make a beginning, even of a journal, for my eyes alone, start upon a solid basis? Some years of living and enjoying a rich orphan's life.-The war-fighting-a zest hitherto undreamed of-unconsciousness-agony-and then?-well now Paris again for special treatment. Is it because I am such a mixture that I am this rotten creature?-An American grandmother, a French mother, and an English father.
I had found her attractive on Wednesday, and after an excellent lunch, and two Benedictines, I was able to persuade myself that her tenderness and passion were real, and not the result of some thousands of francs,-And then when she left I saw my face in the glass without the patch over the socket, and a profound depression fell upon me. Suzette supped with me, here in my appartement last night-When she had gone I felt a beast.
There is nothing so interesting to oneself as oneself and journals cannot yawn in one's face, no matter how lengthy the expression of one's feelings may be!Ī clean white page is a sympathetic thing, waiting there to receive one's impressions! Why do people write journals? Because human nature is filled with egotism. Mercifully I have no near relations-Mercifully I am still very rich, mercifully I can buy love when I require it, which under the circumstances, is not often. I look at my mutilated face before I replace the black patch over the left eye, and I realize that, with my crooked shoulder, and the leg gone from the right knee downwards, that no woman can feel emotion for me again in this world. I am sick of my life-The war has robbed it of all that a young man can find of joy.
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