I was nearly thirty-two and nothing that I'd
done seemed to have been any good. There was some
consolation in the feeling that one wasn't as old as
one's age, but when I tried to think about the future
I found that I couldn't see it. There was no future
except "the rest of the War", and I didn't want that.
My knight-errantry about the War had fizzled out in
more ways than one, and I couldn't go back to being
the same as I was before it started. The "good old
days" had been pleasant enough in their way, but
what could a repetition of them possibly lead to?
How could I begin my life all over again when I
had no conviction about anything except that the
War was a dirty trick which had been played on me
and my generation? That, at any rate, was something to be angry and bitter about now that everything had fallen to pieces and one's mind was in a
muddle and one's nerves were all on edge….