Henley Street
May 25, 1615
A cockroach creeps about my room, an X on its back, the only roach branded in my roost. I see it in the morning, when I sit down to write. It favors a corner, where there is a deep crack, in case of an intruder or wrath on my part. It has a stiff carriage—much more so than any of the others. Ruler, no doubt, with excessive responsibilities! So I have decided to call it Bill. Certainly all other roaches seem afraid of this Conqueror. When I find it on my table, I make a pass at it and it leaps with a scut. It eats paper—old and new. It munches leftovers, liking cheese best, though I think the cheese is pretty well divided between the roaches and the mice.
Henley Street
May 26, 1615
Why am I disliked in Stratford? Is it because I drive a hard bargain? Is it because I have assumed, at least at times, an actor’s air? They say I stand aloof but is it possible to cross the Avon to their side? My side is Ptolemy’s, Priam’s, Cleopatra’s, Coriolanus’. We four are difficult to appraise as we walk along Henley Street. The local folk have never heard the creak of chariot wheels.
Lonely...I have been lonely and am lonelier now, but which is lonelier, the pod with one pea or the pod with aliens? True, I have sued for money; true, I have acquired property. And the city man and country man mistrust one another: the writer fits in nowhere: yet, since this is home, I try to accommodate myself, say “yes” to Mr. Combe, and help if I can. “Yes, M.”
I never could introduce Ann to Londoners and she has been unable to introduce me to Stratford people. If I were well, if I could write, I would spit on Avon.