The Journal of a Disappointed Man

July 11. Over to the flat. She was looking beautiful in a black dress, with a white silk blouse, and a Byron collar, negligently open in front as if a button had come out. She said I varied: sometimes I went up in her estimation, sometimes down; once I went down very low. I understood her to say I was now UP! Alleluia! July 14. ... It would take too long and I am too tired to write out all the varying phases of this day's life--all its impressions and petty miseries chasing one another across my consciousness or leap-frogging over my chest like gleeful fiends.[1] July 21. Thoroughly enjoyed the journey up to town this morning. I secretly gloated over the fact that the train was dashing along over the rails to London bearing me and all the rest of the train's company upon their pursuits--wealth, fame, learning. I was inebriated with the speed, ferocity, and dash of living.... If the train had charged into the buffers I should have hung my head out of the window and cheered. If a man had got in my way, I'd have knocked him down. The wheels of the carriage were singing a lusty song in which I joined. July 30. ... We talked of men and women, and she said she thought men were neither angels nor devils but just men. I said I thought women were either angels or devils. "I am afraid to ask you which you think me."