The Journal of a Disappointed Man

January 22. This Diary reads for all the world as if I were not living in mighty London. The truth is I live in a bigger, dirtier city--ill-health. Ill-health, when chronic, is like a permanent ligature around one's life. What a fine fellow I'd be if I were perfectly well. My energy for one thing would lift the roof off.... We conversed around the text: "To travel hopefully is better than to arrive and true success is to labour." She is--well, so graceful. My God! I love her, I love her, I love her!!! February 3. A Confession H---- B---- invited me to tea to meet his fiancée. Rather pleased with the invitation--I don't know why, for my idea of myself is greater than my idea of him and probably greater than his idea of himself. Yet I went and got shaved, and even thought of buying a new pair of gloves, but poverty proved greater than vanity, so I went with naked hands. On arriving at Turnham Green, I removed my spectacles (well knowing how much they damage my personal appearance). However, the beauty of the thing was that, tho' I waited as agreed, he never turned up, and so I returned home again, crestfallen--and, with my spectacles on again. February 9. ... "Now, W----, talk to me prettily," she said as soon as the door was closed on them. "Oh! make him read a book," whined her sister, but we talked of marriage instead--in all its aspects. Bless their hearts, I found these two dear young things simply sodden with the idea of it.