Diary of a Discontent Read Online Free PDF Page A

man nearby reading the paper as well.
    “Did you see the Willows column?” I asked
with a friendly smile. The imbecilic man, however, had no idea what
I was talking about. He was reading the horoscope. I shook my head
and turned away.
    My walk through the city this afternoon was
blissful. The cool autumn air and the dull gray sky made for
perfect conditions. I walked for several hours, all the while
reciting in my mind some of the best lines from my essay and
simultaneously planning a sequel. Yes, I’ve constructed a sketch of
my next essay already. I’ve grown bored with the mayor and moved on
to the governor, that pompous prig whose reign has been far too
suffocating, far too prolonged.
    ~
    Saturday morning, and I’ve just returned from
a long walk. I wandered along the waterfront, the gray promenade of
moss-choked stones and rotting wood and rusted lampposts. There was
fog on the water, wispy and white. I had to walk against the wind,
beneath the sporadic drizzle of rain. This weather makes me feel
old—older than I actually am.
    ~
    Perhaps my memory cannot be relied upon, but
I am fairly certain that universities have lowered their standards.
When I was at school I had to justify my existence as a student; I
had to prove that I had good reason for sitting through lectures
and taking tests, for withering away in the dusty corners of the
library and sweating in cramped classrooms. Now, however, everyone
is entitled to an education—even those who
don’t want one. Of course no one will stand up against this and
speak the truth: that some people are better off not attending
college. This obvious fact has been so skillfully concealed that to
even think of it today—much less say it out loud—is a crime against
humanity.
    ~
    There is no light in the basement windows.
There is no sign of life. What’s become of my underground girl? I
walk slowly and stare through the glass, sometimes even stooping to
get a better view, but it is useless. The subterrarium, as I call
it, is empty. She is gone.
    ~
    Sixty, I’ve decided, would be a good age to
end at. I just can’t imagine living past that point. Or rather, I
can imagine it perfectly— too perfectly. I
don’t like what’s waiting for me should I choose to extend myself
into a seventh decade. I can see all the pathetic traits I would
inherit, the annoying habits, the sad and weak ways in which I
would be forced to exist. It’s impolite to live beyond sixty. At
that point my life would become a burden—to myself as well as to
others.
    I don’t mean to insult the elderly, and it is
not my intention to place a general limit on the years we are
allowed to live. I am merely speaking for myself. There are, of
course, many people who live well beyond sixty without suffering
much because of it. Take Bertrand Russell, for example. He lived to
be ninety-seven and seemed happy and useful till the end. For me,
though, it would be different. I just couldn’t endure it. Life
humiliates me enough as it is. I don’t need any more handicaps; I
don’t need another thirty or forty years. Who would take care of
me, anyway, while I crawled feebly through an elderly existence?
Who would want me around?
    ~
    Well, it’s complete. The passionate,
prescient pen of Mr. Willows has danced again. This afternoon I
dropped the essay off at the post office. If all goes well—which
I’m confident it will—I’ll be seeing my words in print by next
week.
    It will cause quite a sensation. And why not?
I’ve lived long enough to deserve an outspoken opinion or two.
Every day the newspaper spills over with the idiotic words of
half-wits and gasbags; why not bless it with some wisdom now and
then?
    And incidentally, writing under a pseudonym
has been exhilarating. I feel incredibly free—possessed, even, by
freedom. When I pick up Willows’s pen (literally and figuratively,
for I have in fact reserved a special fountain pen for him) it
feels as though my soul suddenly leaps up from a deep