Tuesday, November 23rd., Les Sablons.
I have now written for rooms to hotels in Paris and London. First preparations beginning for our departure on Saturday. I am completely sick of all literary work, and could not possibly find energy to keep a journal satisfactorily. The prospect of a complete change of life is, at the same time, both exciting and threatening. Hence my emotional turmoil which shows itself in physical symptoms. We have been happy here, or at least content which is the most a reasonable man can expect. The die is cast. I must make the best of it.
Very cold weather also. I began a chill yesterday, and today, as I was walking down from the Point de Vue de Calvaire, I had a stab of lumbago, and had to stand still for a few seconds in order to collect myself sufficiently to go on. But I have had worse lumbago than that in my time.
No comments:
Post a Comment