The Journal of a Disappointed Man

December 7. Have so many projects in view and so little time in which to get them done! Moreover I am always haunted by the fear that I may never finish them thro' physical or temperamental disabilities--a breakdown in health or in purpose. I am one of those who are apt to die unexpectedly and no one would be surprised. An inquest would probably be unnecessary. I badly want to live say another twelve months. Hey! nonny-no! a man's a fool that wants to die. December 9. ... I shook her angrily by the shoulders to-night and said, "Why do I love you?--Tell me," but she only smiled gently and said, "I cannot tell...." I ought not to love her, I know--every omen is against it.... Then I am full of self-love: an intellectual Malvolio proud of his brains and air of distinction.... Then I am fickle, passionate, polygamous ... I am haunted by the memory of how I have sloughed off one enthusiasm after another. I used to dissect snails in a pie-dish in the kitchen while Mother baked the cakes--the unravelling of the internal economy of a Helix caused as great an emotional storm as to-day the Unfinished Symphony does! I look for the first parasol in Kensington Gardens with the same interest as once I sought out the first snowdrop or listened for the first Cuckoo. I am as anxious to identify an instrument in Sir Henry's Orchestra as once to identify the song of a new bird in the woods. Nothing is further from my intention or desire to continue my old habit of nature study. I never read nature books--my old favourites--Waterton's Wanderings, Gilbert White, The Zoologist, etc.--have no interest for me--in fact they give me slight mental nausea even to glance at. Wiedersheim (good old Wiedersheim) is now deposed by a text book on Harmony. My main desire just now is to hear the best music. In the country I wore blinkers and saw only zoology. Now in London, I've taken the bit in my mouth--and it's a mouth of iron--wanting a run for all my troubles before Death strikes me down.