I am myself of a
highly imaginative and anxious temperament, and I have had many
hours of depression at the thought of some unpleasant anticipation
or disagreeable contingency, and I can honestly say that nothing
has ever been so bad, when it actually occurred, as it had
represented itself to me beforehand. There are a few incidents in
my life, the recollection of which I deliberately shun; but they
have always been absolutely unexpected and unanticipated
calamities. Yet even these have never been as bad as I should have
expected them to be. The strange thing is that experience never
comes to one's aid, and that one never gets patience or courage
from the thought that the reality will be in all probability less
distressing than the anticipation; for the simple reason that the
fertile imagination is always careful to add that this time the
occasion will be intolerable, and that at all events it is better
to be prepared for the worst that may happen. Moreover, one wastes
force in anticipating perhaps half-a-dozen painful possibilities,
when, after all, they are alternatives, and only one of them can
happen. That is what makes my present situation so depressing, that
I instinctively clothe it in its worst horrors, and look forward to
a long and dreary life, in which my only occupation will be an
attempt to pass the weary hours.
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