"They do not make excuses for anything they do, they have not to have a pretext for action as we have—They are much less hypocritical and self-conscious."
I wanted to make her talk—.
"Why are we such hypocrites?"
"Because we have set up an impossible standard for ourselves, and hate to show each other that we cannot act up to it."
"Yes, we conceal every feeling—We show indifference when we feel interest—We pretend we have come on business when we have come simply to see someone we are attracted by—."
She let the conversation drop. This provoked me, as her last remark showed how far from stupid she is.
That nervous feeling overcame me again—Confound the woman!
"Please read," I said at last in desperation, and I closed my one eye.
She picked up a book—it happened to be a volume of de Musset—and she read at random—her French is as perfect as her English—The last thing I remember was "Mimi Pinson"—and when I awoke it was past six o'clock and she had gone home.
I wonder how many of us, since the war, know the desolation of waking—alone and in pain—and helpless—Of course there must be hundreds. If I am a rotter and a coward about suffering, at all events it does not come out in words—and perhaps it is because I am such a mixture that I am able to write it in this journal—If I were purely English I should not be able to let myself go even here—.