Since the fateful Nov. 27th, my life has become entirely posthumous. I live now in the grave and am busy furnishing it with posthumous joys. I accept my fate with great content, my one-time restless ambition lies asleep now, my one-time, furious self-assertiveness is anæsthetised by this great War; the War and the discovery about my health together have plucked out of me that canker of self-obsession. I sit at home here in this country cottage in perfect isolation—flattened out by a steam hammer (tho' it took Armageddon to do it!), yet as cheerful and busy as a Dormouse laying up store for the winter. For I am almost resigned to the issue in the knowledge that some day, someone will know, perhaps somebody will understand and—immortal powers!—even sympathise, "the quick heart quickening from the heart that's still."
July 19.
Omniscience
An omniscient Caledonian asked me to-day:
"Where are the Celebes? Are they E. or N.E. of the Sandwich Group?"
I marked him down at once as my legitimate prey. Sitting back in my chair, I replied slowly in my most offensive manner:
"The Island of Celebes is of enormous size and curious shape situated in the Malay Archipelago."
The Caledonian made no sign. Instead of grinning at his error and confessing to a "floater," he endeavoured to carry on by remarking, "That of course would be N. of Papua," just for all the world as if his error was a minor one of latitude and longitude.
Ignoring his comment, I continued: