Man and Maid [antikvár]

MAN AND MAID (RENAISSANCE) February 1918 I AM sick of my life. The war has robbed it of all that a young man can find of joy. I look at my face before I replace the black patch over the left eye, and I realize that, with my crooked shoulder, and the leg gone from the right knee downwards, no woman can feel emotion for me again in this world. So be it—I must be a philosopher. Mercifully I have no near relations—mercifully I am still very rich—mercifully I can buy love when I require it, which, in the circumstances, is not often. Why do people write journals? Because human nature is filled with egotism. There is nothing so interesting to oneself as oneself; and journals cannot yawn in one's face, no matter how lengthy the expression of one's feelings may be! A clean white page is a sympathetic thing, waiting there to receive one's impressions! Suzette supped with me, here in my appartement, last night When she had gone I felt a beast I had