Introspection

Sunday, July 17th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday at 7 p.m., after a week of slogging, I finished "Hugo" which I think is my eighth novel. I have got that off my mind and now this morning I lose a front tooth, just to be supplied with a new worry. 

Five years ago I would have looked on my life, as I am living it now, as the ne plus ultra of paradisiacal bliss, but I am no more content than I ever was. In fact life is a devilish odd thing. I think I have learned more about it in the last three years than ever I knew before. I have books planned that will keep me employed till the end of 1906. But if I am any happier than when I used to cycle down to Farnham & Witley after a week of rottenness in Fleet Street, I do not know it. My belief is that some people are born happy and some aren't. 

I like Paris tremendously. Indeed I can't imagine myself living in any other city. It has spoilt me for London. What I secretly desire is a fine house in the seaside country near Folkestone for the summers, and this flat (which suits me excellently) for the rest of the year. And these things I must have and will have!

Additionally for July 17th., see 'Adrift in Austria'

I went out and bought some cigars. About 4.30 went up to Hoher Salzburg. A very Margate-ish crowd; indeed the same sort of crowds everywhere. They stream into the town daily. Coming home, I met Kommer; or rather he stopped me and offered me a piece of paper. For a second I didn't know him. He had inquired at all the hotels for me (including this one) without success. He had then gone to the police, who informed him at once thatE.A.B. was staying at the Oesterreichischer, and gave him a bit of paper to that effect; this was the paper he was exhibiting to me in the street.