Beware of Pity

To a certain extent action takes my mind off my troubles, although my uncomfortable memories are still churning away inside my head, and there’s a lump in my throat like a sponge soaked in bitter gall.

The more I pictured it, the more I thought about it, the more absurd ideas came into my fevered mind. At that moment it seemed to me a hundred times easier to exert a little quick pressure on the trigger of my revolver than to suffer the infernal torments of the next few days, that helpless waiting to find out whether my comrades had yet heard of my folly, whether the whispering and grinning had already begun behind my back. I knew myself only too well; I knew I would never have the strength to withstand the mockery and scorn and tittle-tattle once it began.

I begin to feel elated, buoyant, even boisterous.