CHAPTER XIV
I am glad I devoted last night and the past hour this morning to
bringing up to date this trivial record, for I have a premonition that
the time is rapidly approaching when I shall no longer have the strength
of will or body to continue it. The little pain has increased in
intensity and frequency the last few days, and though I try to delude
myself into the belief that otherwise I am as strong as ever, I know in
my heart that I am daily growing weaker, daily losing vitality. I shall
soon have to call in a doctor to give me some temporary relief, and
doubtless he will put me to bed, feed me on slops, cut off alcohol,
forbid noise and excitement, and keep me in a drugged, stupefied
condition until I fall asleep, to wake up in the Garden of Prosperpine.
Death is nothing; it is the dying that is such a nuisance. It is going
through so much for so little. It is as bad as the campaign before
a parliamentary election. It offends one's sense of proportion. In a
well-regulated universe there would be no tedious process of decay,
either before or after death.
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