in some great and enthralling pursuit. Above all, I must beware of all ultimate questions—they are too maddeningly unanswerable—let me eschew philosophy and burn Omar.
In this week’s T. P.’s Weekly a youth advertises:—
“Young thinkers interested in philosophy, religion, social reform, the future of humanity, and all free thought, please communicate with ‘Evolution,’ aged twenty-one!” All right for twenty-one.
Later: I have in mind some work on the vascular system of larval newts. In the autumn I see a large piece of work to be done in animal psychology—namely, frequency of stimulus and its relation to habit formation. Yet the doctor advises long rest and the office work remains to be done. I must hack my way through somehow. I sit trying to disentangle these knots; then someone plays a dreamy waltz and all my fine edifices of the will vanish in mist. Is it worth while? Why not float with the tide? But I soon throw off these temptations. If I live, I shall play a fine game! I am determined. A lame-dog life is of no use.
Railway Travel
A journey in a railway train makes me sentimental. If I enter the compartment a robust-minded, cheerful youth, fresh and whistling from a walk by the sea, yet, as soon as I am settled down in one corner and the train is rattling along past fields, woods, towns, and painted stations, I find myself indulging in a saccharine sadness—very toothsome and jolly. I pull a long face and gaze out of the window wistfully and look sad. But I am really happy—and incredibly sentimental.
The effect is produced, I suppose, by the quickly changing panoramic view of the country, and as I see everything sliding swiftly by, and feel myself being hurtled forward willy-nilly, I am subconscious of the flight of Time, of the eternal flux, of the trajectory of my own life. … Timid folk, of course, want some Rock of Ages, something static. They want life a mill pond rather than the torrent which it is, a homely affair of teacups and tabby cats rather than a dangerous expedition.
Who will rid me of the body of this death? My body is chained to me—a dead weight. It is my warder. I can do nothing without first consulting it and seeking its permission. I jeer at its grotesqueness. I chafe at the thongs it binds on me. On this bully I am dependent for everything the world can give me. How can I preserve my amour propre when I must needs be forever wheedling and cajoling a despot with delicate meats and soft couches?—I who am proud, ambitious, and full of energy! In the end, too, I know it intends to carry me off. … I should like though to have the last kick and, copying De Quincey, arrange to hand it over for dissection to the medical men—out of revenge.
“Hope thou not much; fear thou not at all”—my motto of late.
I can well imagine looking back on these entries later on and blushing at the pettiness of my soul herein revealed. … Only be charitable, kind reader. There are three Johns, and I am much mistaken if in these pages there will not be found something of the John known to himself, and an inkling, perhaps, of the man as he is known to his Creator. As a timid showman afraid that unless he emphasises the feature of his exhibit, they will be overlooked, let me, hat in hand, point out that I know I am an ass, that I am still hoping (in spite of ill health) that I am an enthusiast.
Maeterlinck’s Wisdom and Destiny is distilled Marcus Aurelius. I am rather tired of these comfortable philosophers. If a man be harassed by Fate with a red rag and a picador let him turn and rend him—or try to, anyway.
Staying by the Sea
I have been living out of doors a lot lately and am getting sunburnt. It gives me infinite pleasure to be sunburnt—to appear the man of the open air, the open road, and the wild life. The sun intoxicates me today. The sea is not big enough to hold me nor the sky for me to breathe in. I feel I should like to be swaying with all the passions, throbbing with life and a vast activity of heart and sinew—to live magnificently—with an unquenchable thirst to drink to the lees, to plumb the depth of every joy and every sorrow, to see my life flash in the heat. Ah! Youth! Youth! Youth!!! In these moments of ecstasy my happiness is torrential. I have the soul of the poppy flaming in me then. I am rather like the poppy in many ways. … It is peculiarly appropriate. It must be my flower! I am the poppy!!
L⸺ was digging up the ground in his garden today and one shovelful came up thick and shapely. He laid the sod on its back gently without breaking it and said simply, “Doesn’t it come up nice?” His face was radiant!—Real happiness lies in the little things, in a bit of garden work, in the rattle of the teacups in the next room, in the last chapter of a book.
Returned home. I hate living in this little town. If someone dies, he is sure to be someone you had a joke with the night before. A suicide—ten to one—implicates your bosom friend, or else the little man at the bookshop cut him down. There have been three deaths since I came home—I knew them all. It depresses me. The town seems a mortuary with all these dead bodies lying in it. Lucky for you, if you’re a fat, rubicund, unimaginative physician.
Two more people dead—one a school friend. Sat on a seat on the river
