The Journal of a Disappointed Man

"The other day"--I begin quietly collecting my thoughts to tell the story in detail, "I went to the----" "Ah! you must come and see my pictures----" he breaks in; but I go on and he goes on and as I talk, I catch phrases: "St. Peters" or"Michael Angelo" or "Botticelli" in wondrous antiphon with my own "British Museum" and "I saw there," "two Syracusan," "tetradrachms," until very likely I reach the end of my sentence before he does his, or perhaps his rasp drives my remarks out of my head. But that makes no difference, for rather than give in I go on improvising in a louder and louder voice when suddenly, at length made aware of the fact that I am talking too, he stops! leaving me bellowing nonsense at the top of my voice, thus: "and I much admired these Syracusan tetradrachms, very charming indeed, I like them, the Syracusan tetradrachms I mean you know, and it will be good to go again and see them (louder) if possible and the weather keeps dry (louder) and the moon and the stars keep in their courses, if the slugs on the thorn (loudest)----" he stops, hears the last few words of my remarks, pretends to be appreciative but wonders what in Heaven's name I can have been talking about. September 3. This is the sort of remark I like to make: Someone says to me: "You are a pessimist." "Ah! well," I say, looking infernally deep, "pessimism is a good policy; it's like having your cake and eating it at the same time."