Diary of a Drug Fiend

Igo The Diary of a Drug Fiend And I felt an inexpressible sense of relief. His tone implied that he had taken charge of us. “No,” I said, “‘ we used up the last grain some time ago.” “IT won’t ask you to remember when,” he replied. “* T know too well how muddled one gets. And besides, when one starts this experiment, the clock doesn’t tell one much, as you know.” My self-respect came back to me with a rush. He insisted on our regarding ourselves as pioneers of science and humanity. We were making an experiment; we were risking life and reason for the sake of mankind. Of course, it wasn’t true. And yet, who can tell the real root of one’s motives? If he chose to insist that we were doing what the leaders of thought have always done, how could I contradict him ? A buoyant billow of bliss bounded in my brain. It might not be true; but, by God, we’d make it come true. I suppose a light leapt in my eyes, and enabled him to read my thought. Respice finem! Judge the end; The man, and not the child, my friend!” he quoted gaily. And then, to my absolute blank amazement, he took me back into the studio, got a bottle of heroin from the cedar cabinet and shook out a small quantity on to a scrap of paper. He twisted it up, and put it in my hand. “Don’t be surprised,” he laughed, “‘ your face tells me that it’s all right. You hadn’t got that look of a dying duck in a thunderstorm which shows that you're wholly enslaved. As Sir Peter very cleverly pointed out the other day, you can’t stop unless you've got something to stop with. You're keeping your magical diary, of course.”’ “Oh, yes,” I cried gladly, I knew how important he thought the record was.