December 21 + 

This continuous preoccupation with self sickens me⁠—as I look back over these entries. It is inconceivable that I should be here steadily writing up my ego day by day in the middle of this disastrous war.⁠ ⁠… Yesterday I had a move on. Today life wearies me. I am sick of myself and life. This beastly world with its beastly war and hate makes me restless, dissatisfied, and full of a longing to be quit of it. I am as full of unrest as an autumn Swallow. “My soul,” I said to them at breakfast with a sardonic grin, “is like a greyhound in the slips. I shall have to wear heavy boots to prevent myself from soaring. I have such an uplift on me that I could carry a horse, a dog, a cat, if you tied them on to my homing spirit and so transformed my Ascension into an adventure out of Baron Munchausen.” With a gasconade of contempt, I should like to turn on my heel and march straight out of this wretched world at once. + 