And in
the midst of it all I sit, in dry misery, hating myself for my
feebleness and cowardice, keeping as far as possible my pain to
myself, brooding, feverishly straining, struggling hopelessly to
recover the clue. The savour has gone out of life; I feel widowed,
frozen, desolate. How often have I tranquilly and good-humouredly
contemplated the time when I need write no more, when my work
should be done, when I should have said all I had to say, and could
take life as it came, soberly and wisely. Now that the end has come
of itself, I feel like a hopeless prisoner, with death the only
escape from a bitter and disconsolate solitude.
Can I not amuse myself with books, pictures, talk? No, because it
is all a purposeless passing of dreary hours. Before, there was
always an object ahead of me, a light to which I made my way; and
all the pleasant incidents of life were things to guide me, and to
beguile the plodding path. Now I am adrift; I need go neither
forwards nor backwards; and the things which before were gentle and
quiet occupations have become duties to be drearily fulfilled.
I have put down here exactly what I feel. It is not cowardice that
makes me do it, but a desire to face the situation, exactly as it
is.
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