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5 March. -- For the last ten days I’ve led a feverish existence which made me neglect my journal. Not wanting to lose a moment of such a brief life, I’ve just about given up sleeping at night. In these last four days, I’ve filled more paper than I would have in three weeks of normal life, and still my style has the same brilliance, my thoughts the same depth. I am pursuing pleasure just as frenetically. I want all beautiful women for myself, but it’s impossible. With the same desire to seize the day as it passes, and perhaps also in a spirit of vengeance, every day I’ve had two very copious meals on the black market. At noon I ate three dozen oysters, two poached eggs, a quarter of a goose, a slice of beef filet, vegetables, salad, assorted cheeses, a chocolate mousse, a grapefruit, and three mandarin oranges. As I was drinking my coffee, I found that although I couldn’t escape the idea of my sad lot, I did feel a certain satisfaction. Am I becoming the perfect stoic? Coming out of the restaurant, I ran into the Roquentons. Today the old fellow was living out his last day for the month of March. Tonight at midnight, when his sixth ticket is used up, he will sink into non-being and remain there for twenty-five days.
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