14 November 1900

 

I am borne backwards, as if on the tide.

      I used to swim a great deal once, but I do not suppose I shall do so again.  Only in small matters can I glimpse the reality of what is happening to me.  A mad letter arrived yesterday from a young man.  Cowley or Crowley.  It ended by assuring me that I would live for ever.  This had been 'revealed' to him.  I have never trusted revelation: it smacks of pessimism.  I must pause now for I hear footsteps on the stairs.  If it is not Death, it must be Maurice.