March 25
Often in the middle of a quite vivid ten seconds of life, I find I have switched myself off from myself to make room for the person of a disinterested and usually vulgar spectator. Even in the thrill of a devotional kiss I have overheard myself saying, “Hot stuff, this witch.” Or in a room full of agreeable and pleasant people, while I am being as agreeable as I know how, comes the whisper in a cynical tone, “These damned women.” I am apparently a triple personality:
The respectable youth.
The foul-mouthed commentator and critic.
The real but unknown I.
Curious that these three should live together amiably in the same tenement!
A crowd makes egotists of us all. Most men find it repugnant to them to submerge themselves in a sea of their fellows. A silent, listening crowd is potentially full of commotion. Some poor devils suffocating and unable any longer to bear the strain will shout, “Bravo,” or “Hear, hear,” at every opportunity. At the feeblest joke we all laugh loudly, welcoming this means of self-survival. Hence the success of the Salvation Army. To be preached at and prayed for in the mass for long on end is what human nature can’t endure in silence and a good deal of self can be smuggled by an experienced Salvationist into “Alleluia” or “The Lord be praised.”
I had to determine the names of some exotic cockroaches today and finding it very difficult and dull raised a weak smile in two enthusiasts who know them as “Blattids” by rechristening them with great frivolity, “Fat ’eds.”
“These bloody insects,” I said to an Australian entomologist of rare quality.
“A good round oath,” he answered quietly.
“If it was a square one it wouldn’t roll properly,” I said. It is nice to find an entomologist with whom I can swear and talk bawdy.