The Journal of a Disappointed Man

In the Third Movement comes the crash by which I know something final and dreadful has happened. Then the resurrection with commotion in Heaven: tempests and human faces, scurryings to and fro, brazen portcullises clanging to, never to open more, the distant roll of drums and the sound of horses' hoofs. From behind the inmost veil of Heaven I faintly catch the huzzas of a great multitude. Then comes a great healing wind, then a few ghost-like tappings on the window pane till gradually the Avenue of Arches into Heaven come into view with a solemn cortege advancing slowly along. Above the great groundswell of woe, Hope is restored and the Unknown Hero enters with all pomp into his Kingdom, etc., etc. I am not surprised to learn that Beethoven was once on the verge of suicide. April 15. There is an absurd fellow ... who insists on taking my pirouettes seriously. I say irresponsibly, "All men are liars," and he replies with jejuneness and exactitude of a pronouncing dictionary, "A liar is one who makes a false statement with intent to deceive." What can I do with him? "Did I ever meet a lady," he asked, "who wasn't afraid of mice?" "I don't know," I told him, "I never experiment with ladies in that way." He hates me. May 11. This mysterious world makes me chilly. It is chilly to be alive among ghosts in a nightmare of calamity. This Titanic war reduces me to the size and importance of a debilitated housefly. So what is a poor egotist to do? To be a common soldier is to become a pawn in the game between ambitious dynasts and their ambitious marshals. You lose all individuality, you become a "bayonet" or a "machine gun," or "cannon fodder," or "fighting material."