I had quite forgotten this little
book. But now I have something to say,
and I will talk to it.
Something
has happened, something final. The
operation has not removed the pain, it seems simply to
have driven it underground where each day I search for it anxiously. And, when I woke this morning, I knew that
the pain had finally taken hold. I have
aged terribly and, for once, I do not need a mirror to show me: my body tells
me quite plainly enough. I feel myself
decaying - I want to scream out, but I cannot.
I write now only with difficulty.
Maurice leaves the journal by my bed.
I rely upon Maurice so much now: he sits with me and, when I am awake,
he reads to me. He wished to begin Jude
the Obscure, but I begged him not to.
It would add a new horror to the deathbed.