October 28.
Life has been very treacherous to me—this, the greatest treachery of all. But I don't care. I exult over it. Last night I lay awake and listened to the wind in the trees and was full of exultation.
Now I can only talk, but nobody to talk to. Shall hire a row of broomsticks. More and more, the War appears to me a tragic hoax.
November 1.
E—— has had a set-back and is in bed again. However sclerotic my nerve tissue, I feel as flaccid as a jelly.
My God! how I loathe the prospect of death.
November 3.
I must have some music or I shall hear the paralysis creeping. That is why I lie in bed and whistle.
"My dear Brown, what am I to do?"[5] (I like to dramatise myself like that—it is an anodyne).