—Or is it simply my blind egotism that makes me think that?
February 6th.
I do not think that what I write can be of much interest. It must be monotonous—all this despair, this endless crying out, this endless repetition of the same words, the same thought.
Yet that is all that my life is! That is just what I do every day—whenever I am not reading a book to forget myself.
It is all so simple, my situation! That is the most terrible thing about it, it is the same thing always and forever.
I have lived so much agony through this thing—it would not startle me if I saw that my hair had turned white. I know I feel like an old man. I am settled down into mournfulness, into despair; I can do nothing but gaze back—I have lived my life—I have spent my force—I am tired and sick.
I! I! I!—do you get tired of hearing it? It was not always like that; once you read a little about a book.