John St. John

6.27. 7.10. 735- 8.3. 9.10. JOHN ST. JOHN All this time in Hanged Man position, and thinking of everything else. As bad as it was on the very first day! More waste time aimlessly watching a poker game. Walked down to Cafe’ de Versailles. Dinner. Hors d‘CEuvre, Escargots, Cassoulet de Castelnaudary,Glace, 3% Evian. Am quite washed—out. I have not even the courage of despair. There is not enough left in me to despair. I don’t care. One gleam of light illumines the dark path—I can’t enjoy my dinner. The snails, as I prong them forth, are such ugly, slimy, greasy black horrors—oh! so like my soul! . . . Ugh! I write a letter to F broken pentagram. It makes me think of a “ busted flush.” . . . But through all the sunlight peeps: e.g., These six snails were my six inferior souls; the seventh, the real soul, cannot be eaten by the devourer. How’s that for high? r and sign myself with a Possibly a rousing mantra would fix things up; say the Old Favourite: Aum Tat Sat Aum and give the Hindus a chance. We can but try. So I begin at once. This is past all bearing. Another hour wasted chat- ting to Nina and H The mantra hardly remem- 121