Listless

Wednesday, January 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Horrible muddy weather yesterday and the same again today. A sort of thick mist filled the air, not substantial enough to be called rain but effective at wetting one's person, and depressing one's soul. I long for some warmth and some sunshine. I did nothing all day but prepare to depart for Menton. 

Of course I had a list. I am one of those people who cannot proceed in the absence of a list. Whenever I have some scheme in prospect the first thing I do is to make a list. I like to have it handy, by me, so as to be able to add or subtract as my inclinations develop. To be honest I cannot understand how others manage without lists. I have come across people (men and women) who assert that they would rather die than waste time making lists. Needless to say they generally turn out to be the same people who find themselves missing some essential item. And who do they then turn to? In the face of repeated experience they are generally incorrigible.

I bought two Stevensons recently and have read a lot of "Island Nights". Good sound work, but, strictly judged, decidedly mediocre - though marked by the most charming justice of 'values' as they say in painting. I am in need of a really 'good' book to read and have failed to find one, not for want of trying. Of course I could re-read something I know to be first-rate, but I have a desire for something new and exciting. This is symptomatic I think of a general staleness which I hope this working holiday will dissipate.