Cold Turkey 227
work to be done. I have become quite blind to the
spiritual world. Keletiel never comes. I must wait,
wait, wait for the Holy Spirit ; but that’s a memory so
far, far off !
There are times when I almost doubt it, yet my
faith is the only thing that prevents my going insane.
I can't endure without H.
The sympathy of suffering has brought Peter closer.
We lie about and look at each other; but we can’t
touch, the skin is too painful. We are both restless
as it is impossible to describe. It irritates us to see
each other like this, and we can’t do anything; we
constantly get up with the idea of doing something,
but we sit down again immediately. Then we can’t
sit, we have to lie down. But lying down doesn’t rest
us; it irritates us more, so we get up again, and so on
for ever. One can’t smoke a cigarette; after two or
three puffs it drops from one’s fingers. The only
respite I have is this diary. It relieves me to write of
my sufferings; and besides, it is important for the
spiritual life. Basil must have the record to read.
I can’t remember dates, though. I don’t even know
what year it is. The leaves in the park tell me it is
autumn, and the nights are getting longer. The night
is better than the day; there is less to irritate. We
don’t sleep, of course, we fall into a torpor. Basil told
me about it once. He called it the dark night of the soul.
One has to go through it on the way to the Great Light.
The light of day is torture. Every sense is an in-
strument of the most devilish pain. There is no flesh
on our bones.
This perpetual craving for H! Our minds are utterly
empty of everything else. Rushing into the void come
tumbling the words of that abominable poem :—
‘‘A bitten and burning snake
Striking its venom within it,
As if it might serve to slake
The pain for the tithe of a minute.”