The Gain Isn't Counted To The Recluse

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.

I Wonder Whether If I Had An Education I Should Have Been More Or Less A Fool That I Am.

It Is So Comic To Hear Oneself Called Old, Even At Ninety I Suppose!

How Heroic To Be Able To Suppress One's Vanity To The Extent Of Confessing That The Game Is Too Hard.

Ah! Those Strange People Who Have The Courage To Be Unhappy! Are They Unhappy, By The Way?