Saturday, April 4th., Villa des Nefliers.
Yesterday I wrote 1,700 words in two and a half hours.
Also, I received Tauchnitz' "Swinburne". I came across "England: an Ode." I would not write such a thing called "Englnad: an Ode." This patriotism seems so cheap and conceited. It leaves me cold. I would as soon write "Burslem: an Ode" or "The Bennetts: an Ode." I would treat such a theme ironically, or realistically. But loud, sounding praise, ecstacy -No!
Every morning just now I say to myself: Today, not tomorrow, is the day you have to live, to be happy in. Just as complete materials for being happy today as you will ever have. Live as though this day your last of joy. "How obvious, if thought about" - yet it is just what we forget. Sheer Marcus Aurelius of course.
Each day, thrice, I expect romantically interesting, fate-making letters. Always disappointed. Astonishing how I have kept this up for two years.
Eyesight going wrong again. Ought to go to an optician at once. But can't put myself out to go to Paris, hate the idea of explaining to an optician etc. Yet I know I run risks. Yesterday I decided to go and felt easier; today my eyes are better and I put it off.
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