The Journal of a Disappointed Man

I went--and of course everything passed off in the most normal manner. She is a very pretty girl--like velvet. Before dinner, we walked in the garden--and talked only of flowers. June 4. On the Hill, this morning, felt the thrill of the news of my own Death: I mean I imagined I heard the words,-- "You've heard the news about B----?" Second Voice: "No, what?" "He's dead." Silence. Won't all this seem piffle if I don't die after all! As an artist in life I ought to die; it is the only artistic ending --and I ought to die now or the Third Act will fizzle out in a long doctor's bill. June 5. A New Pile in the Pier Watched some men put a new pile in the pier. There was all the usual paraphernalia of chains, pulleys, cranes, and ropes, with a massive wooden pile swinging over the water at the end of a long wire hawser. Everything was in the massive style--even the men--very powerful men, slow, ruminative, silent men. Nothing very relevant could be gathered from casual remarks. The conversation was without exception monosyllabic: "Let go," or "Stand fast." But by close attention to certain obscure movements of the man on the ladder near the water's edge, it gradually came thro' to my consciousness that all these powerful, silent men were up against some bitter difficulty. I cannot say what it was. The burly monsters were silent about the matter.... In fact they appeared almost indifferent--and tired, oh! so very tired of the whole business. The attitude of the man nearest me was that for all he cared the pile could go on swinging in mid-air to the crack of Doom.