[L. 30 | 37] 25 April 1963

The weather, happily, continues to be bright and bone dry; my guts, by some miracle, are giving little trouble; and concentration has been steadily improving—indeed, it is better now than it has been at any time during the past couple of years or so.

If anyone is going to commit suicide—not that I advocate it for anyone—it is a great mistake to do it when one is feeling at one's most suicidal. The business should be carefully planned so that one is in the best possible frame of mind—calm, unmoved, serene—when one does it. Otherwise one may end up anywhere. The present time, therefore, would seem to be the best for me to kill myself, if that is my intention. All the melancholy farewell letters are written (they have to be amended and brought up to date from time to time, as the weeks pass and my throat is still uncut);[1] the note for the coroner is prepared (carefully refraining from any witty remarks that might spoil the solemn moment at the inquest when the note is read aloud); and the mind is peaceful and concentrated.

But it is precisely when all obstacles have been removed and everything is ready that one least feels like suicide. There is the temptation to hope that the good weather will last (which it won't), that one's guts are improving (which they aren't), and that this time at least one will make some real progress. So it is just possible (though I don't want to commit myself) that, weakly giving in to the temptation to survive, I shall once again let slip a golden opportunity of doing away with myself.

Editorial notes:

[30.1] farewell letters: None were discovered. [Back to text]