18–24 July 1887

I sit at home full of remorse. The cause of my remorse is this: life is passing away and draws near to its end, and yet I have not fathomed it. Rather do I drive away those disquieting questions of our destiny when they intrude themselves upon me, and try to hide from them. Do I live truly? Do I act rightly? For example, I am now sitting here, and everyone admires my sacrifice. Now there is no question of sacrifice. I lead a life of ease, gormandise at the table d’hôte, do nothing, and spend my money on luxuries, while others want it for absolute necessities. Is not that the veriest egoism? I do not act towards my neighbours as I ought.