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  • "JAN. 20, 19—
  • "The nights are so dreary now and there is such a brief space of grey, sunless
  • day. I work and think all day and, when night comes down early, gloom settles
  • on my soul. I can't describe the feeling. It is dreadful—worse than any actual
  • pain. In so far as I can express it in words I feel a great and awful
  • weariness—not of body or brain but of  _feeling,_  coupled with a haunting
  • dread of the future— _any_  future—even a happy one—nay, a happy one most of
  • all, for in this strange mood it seems to me that to be happy would require
  • more effort—more buoyancy than I shall possess. The fantastic shape my fear
  • assumes is that it would be  _too much trouble_  to be happy—require too much
  • energy.
  • "Let me be honest—in this journal if nowhere else. I know quite well what is
  • the matter with me. This afternoon I was rummaging in my old trunk in the
  • garret and found a packet of the letters Teddy wrote the first year he was in
  • Montreal. I was foolish enough to sit down and read them all. It was a mad
  • thing to do. I am paying for it now. Such letters have a terrible resurrective
  • power. I am surrounded by bitter fancies and unbidden ghosts—the little
  • spectral joys of the past."