November 11.
She observed me carefully—I'm looking a perfect wreck —tu l'as voulu, George Dandin—but it's mainly ill-health and not on her account.
I said,—
"Some things are too funny to laugh at."
"Is that why you are so solemn?"
"No," I answered, "I'm not solemn, I am laughing—some things are too solemn to be serious about."
She saw me off at the door and smiled quietly—an amused faraway smile of feline satisfaction....
November 12.
Horrible nervous depression. Thinking of suicide with a pistol—a Browning. Or of 10 days' mysterious disappearance, when I will go and live in a good Hotel, spend all my money, and live among human beings with eyes and noses and legs. This isolation. Am I going mad? If I disappeared, it would be interesting to see if any one missed me.
November 13.