Rather pallid of spirit this evening. Partly just mid-week fatigue, when fancy’s airy castle dissolves before one’s eyes. (And what an astonishingly silly thing to write.) Actually, I know I’m hovering on the verge of a pit of melancholy, and could let myself slide into it if I wished, but I don’t dare indulge myself. Melancholy of the self-indulgent sort can be a balm to the spirit: a shifting of the burden of personal existence to Fata.I suppose I’m at that point when I’ve settled in here, my course is underway and going well, I have resumed dissertation work—and I’m simply experiencing the humdrum of a too-ordered existence. Not to mention the fact that I’m pushing myself with the dissertation. And that the skies are gloomy these three days. And that, push as I will, I still accomplish little. And that my landlord, Fr. K.: well, the best said about him, the better.
And what, after all, is love?
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