23 October 1916 – 29 October 1916

The fact that I can't write, finally bottles me up. Damn! Damn! Damn! If only I can get my Essay on Journal Writers done. E---- goes on well. I have a thousand things to say.

Still awaiting a reprieve. I hate alarming the Doctor--he's such a cheerful man so I conceal my symptoms, quite a collection by now. The prospect of breaking the news to her makes me miserable. I hide away as much as possible lest she should see. I must speak when she is well again.

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.