 36, 37, 38, 39, box 3, spool 5, x3, 2, x3, 5, 5, little scoundrel, box 3, spool. Mother at rest at last, hmm, a black ball, a dark nurse, slight improvement in bowel condition, hmm, memorable what? Equinox, memorable Equinox? Farewell to love. 39 today, sound as a bell, 39 today, sound as a bell. Apart from my old weakness and intellectually I have now every reason to suspect at the crest of the wave or their abouts. Celebrated the awful occasion as in recent years quietly at the wine house, not a soul sat before the fire with closed eyes, separating the grain from the husks, jotted down a few notes on the back of an envelope. Good to be back in my den, in my old rags, have just eaten, I regret to say, three bananas and only with difficulty refrained from a fourth. Fatal things for a man with my condition, cut them out. The new light above my table is a great improvement. With all this darkness round me, I feel less alone, in a way. I love to get up and move about in it, then back here to me, corrupt. The grain, I wonder, do I mean by that? I mean, I suppose I mean those things worth having when all my dust has settled. I close my eyes and try to imagine them. Extraordinary silence this evening. I strain my ears and do not hear a sound. Old Miss MacGlome sings always at this hour, but not tonight. Songs of her girlhood, she says. Hard to think of her as a girl. Wonderful woman though. Carry, I fancy. Shall I sing when I am her age, if I ever am? No. Did I sing as a boy? No. Did I ever sing? Just been listening to an old year, passages at random. I did not check in the book, but it must be at least 10 or 12 years ago. At that time, I think I was still living on and off with Bianca in Kedah Street. Well out of that. Jesus, yes. Hopeless business. Not much about her, apart from a tribute to her eyes. Very warm. I suddenly saw them again. In compere. These old p.m.s are gruesome, but I often find them before embarking on a new retrospect. Hard to believe I was ever that young wellp. The voice. Jesus. And the aspirations. And the resolutions. To drink less in particular. Statistics. 1700 hours out of the preceding 8000 odd consumed unlicensed premises alone. More than 20% say 40% of his waking life. Plans for a less engrossing sexual life. Last illness of his father. Flagging pursuit of happiness. Unattainable laxation. Sneers at what he calls his youth. And thanks to God that it's over. False rain there. Shadows of the opus magnum. Closing with a yelp to Providence. What remains of all that misery. A shabby green coat on a railway station platform. No. When I look back that is gone. With what I hope is perhaps a glint of the old eye to come. There is of course the house on the canal where mother lay a dying. In the late autumn after her long vejuity. And the dying in the late autumn after her long vejuity. And the vicious. Veduity. State or condition. Of being or remaining. Widow or widower. Or remaining. Deep weeds of veduity. Also of an animal. Especially a bird. The widower or weaver bird. Lack plumage of male. A bird. By the weir from where I could see her window. There I sat in the biting wind wishing she were gone. Hardly a soul. Just a few regulars. Nurse maids. Infants. Old men. Dogs. I got to know them quite well. Or by appearance of course I mean. One dark young beauty I recollect particularly. All white and starch. With a big black hooded perambulator. Most funereal thing. Whenever I looked in her direction. She had her eyes on me. And yet when I was bold enough to speak to her. Not having been introduced. She threatened to call a policeman. As if I had designs on her virtue. Face she had. The eyes. Like. Crystal light. I was there when. Blind went down. One of those dirty brown roller affairs. Throwing a ball for a little white dog as chance would have it. I happened to look up. And there it was. All over and done with. At last. I sat on for a few moments. With the ball in my hand. And the dog yelping and pawing at me. The dog. I held it out to him. And he took it in his mouth. Gently. Gently. A small solid rubber ball. I shall feel it in my hand. Until my dying day. It might have kept it. But I gave it to the dog. Spiritually a year of profound gloom and indigence. Until that memorable night in March. At the end of the jetty. In the howling wind. Never to be forgotten. When suddenly I saw the whole thing. The vision at last. This I fancy is what I have chiefly to record this evening. Against the day when my work will be done. And perhaps no place left in my memory. Warm or cold. For the miracle that. For the fire. That set it alight. What I suddenly saw then was this. That the belief I had been going on all my life. Namely. Great granite rocks. The foam flying up in the light of the lighthouse. And the wind gauge spinning like a propeller. Clear to me at last. That the dark I have always struggled to keep under. Is in reality my most. Unshatterable association. Until my dissolution of storm and night. With the light of the understanding. And the fire. Face in her breasts. And my hand on her. Lay there without move. Up a lake. With the off the bank. Then pushed out into the stream and drifted. She lay stretched out on the floorboards with her hands under her head. And her eyes closed. Son blazing down. Bit of a breeze. Water nice and lively. I noticed a scratch on her thigh. And asked her how she came by it. Picking gooseberries. She said. I said again I thought it was hopeless. No good going on. And she agreed. Without opening her eyes. I asked her to look at me. And after a few moments. Moments she did. But the eyes just slits. Because of the glare. I bent over her. To get them in the shadow. And they opened me in. We drifted in among the flags and stuck. May they went down sighing before the stem. I lay down across her. With my face in her breasts. And my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us. Alled us. Gently from side to side. Been listening. To that stupid bastard I took myself for. 30 years ago. Had to believe I was ever as bad as that. A voice. Jesus. Thank God that's all over and done with anyway. She had everything there. Everything on this old muck ball. All the light and dark and famine and feasting of the ages. Let that go. Take his mind off his homework. Jesus. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was right. And to say at a squeak. What's a year now? Sour cards in the iron stool. Revelled in the word spool. Happiest moment of the past half million. 17 copies sold. 11 of which a trade price. To free circulating libraries. Beyond the seas. Getting no. Out once or twice. Before the summer was cold. That shivering in the park. Drowned in dreams and burning to be gone. Last fancies. Scalded the eyes out of me. Reading. Effie again. A page a day. With tears again. Could have been happy with her. Up there on the Baltic. And the pine. And the dew. Fanny came in. A bony old ghost of a whore. I couldn't do much. But I suppose better than finger and thumb. Last time wasn't so bad. How do you manage it? It's your age. She said. I told her. I've been savin' up for her. All my life. I went to Vespers once. Like when I was in short trousers. Boozed away. And fell off the pew. Sometimes wandered in the night. If a last effort. Finish your booze now. Get to your bed. Go on with that drivel in the morning. Or leave it at that. Leave it at that. And wander. Be again. And the dingle on a Christmas Eve gathering holly. The red barret. Be again uncroken. And a Sunday morning. And the haze with the bitch. Stop. And listen to the bell. And so on. Be again. Be again. All that old misery. Once wasn't it nephria? Lie down across her. Gooseberries she said. I said again. I thought it was hopeless. No good going on. And she agreed. Without opening her eyes. I asked her to look at me. And after a few moments. After a few moments she did. Eyes just slits. Because of the glare. Over her. To get them in the shadow. And they opened. Let me in. We drifted in among the flags and stuck. The way they went down. Sighing before the stem. I lay down across her. With my face in her breasts. And my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved us gently up and from side to side. Silence. Here I end this real three. Perhaps my best years are gone. There was still a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now.