The Journal of a Disappointed Man

My God! how I loathe the prospect of death. November 3. I must have some music or I shall hear the paralysis creeping. That is why I lie in bed and whistle. "My dear Brown, what am I to do?"[5] (I like to dramatise myself like that--it is an anodyne). I feel as if I were living alone on Ascension Island with the tide coming up continuously, up and up and up. November 6. She has known all from the beginning! M---- warned her not to marry me. How brave and loyal of her! What an ass I have been. I am overwhelmed with feelings of shame and self-contempt and sorrow for her. She is quite cheerful and an enormous help. November 12. What a wreck my existence has become and--dragging down others with me. If only I could rest assured that after I am dead these Journals will be tenderly cared for--as tenderly as this blessed infant! It would be cruel if even after I have paid the last penalty, my efforts and sufferings should continue to remain unknown or disregarded. What I would give to know the effect I shall produce when published! I am tortured by two doubts--whether these MSS. (the labour and hope of many years) will survive accidental loss and whether they really are of any value. I have no faith in either. November 14. In fits of panic, I keep saying to myself: "My dear Brown, what am I to do?" But where is Brown? Brown, you devil! where are you?