Intense, restrained, and soulless for you must be soulless to have done what you have done. Who will ever know your heart, who will ever know your mind? Rebecca – Rebecca, when I think of you with your pale earnest face, your great wide fanatical eyes like a saint, the narrow mouth that hid your teeth, sharp and white as ivory, and your halo of savage hair, electric, dark, uncontrolled – there has never been anyone more beautiful. What was her life before I knew her, what is it now? She misses so much – so much – and no one will ever know the truth. Sometimes I can think of it all dispassionately, and I pity her. She would never have loved me – she will never love any man. I did not follow her because I knew that it was hopeless. It's the hot feeling that has filled me, the utter incapacity to reason.Īnd I am deceiving myself when I say she would have come to me. I should have taught her what it is to be loved by a man – yes – a man, and I would have thrown his filthy battered body from the window, watched him disappear for ever, his evil scarlet mouth distorted. If I could feel, I should have followed her to the ends of the earth, no matter how she pleaded or how she loathed me. No, it's the emptiness that hurts, the breaking up of everything inside me. Let's laugh till the blood runs from our eyes – there's fun, if you like. It's easy enough to laugh, who wouldn't crack their sides and split their tongues with laughing. If only it had been a dream, something to laugh over, a festered imagination. Vomit forth the poison in my brain.įor I am poisoned, I cannot sleep, I cannot close my eyes without seeing his damned face.
Sometimes I think that my brain cannot hold together, it is filled with too much horror – too great a despair.Īnd there is no one I have never been so unutterably alone. I want to know if men realise when they are insane. My sole reason for publishing these pages is to satisfy the entreaties of many friends who have been interested in my discovery. Whether the wild improbabilities of the story are true, or whether the whole is but the hysterical product of a diseased mind, we shall never know. I have placed three dots between sentences when words or lines were undecipherable. Some of the pages of his story were so damaged by exposure as to render them completely illegible thus there are many gaps, and much of it seems without sequence, including the abrupt and unsatisfactory termination. Either the wretched man drowned himself near the spot where he hid his pocket book, and his body has been lost at sea or he is still wandering about the world trying to forget himself and his tragedy. Their owner has never been traced, and the most diligent enquiries have failed to discover his identity.
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