May 14 + 

Returned home. I hate living in this little town. If someone dies, he is sure to be someone you had a joke with the night before. A suicide⁠—ten to one⁠—implicates your bosom friend, or else the little man at the bookshop cut him down. There have been three deaths since I came home⁠—I knew them all. It depresses me. The town seems a mortuary with all these dead bodies lying in it. Lucky for you, if you’re a fat, rubicund, unimaginative physician. + 