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[Less than two years later, Muggeridge wrote in a diary entry for November 23, 1934:]

I think now that I’ve really touched bottom. It’s not even entirely physical. A sense of unutterable negation. I should like to be very very ill, to have to lie in bed for weeks and weeks without any cares or even thoughts, just letting time slip by me. The struggle is too great for me, whether because I have to struggle more than most, or because I’m feebler than most, I don’t know. If I sit still a moment, melancholy and fear surge up in me. I can’t manage my life. I don’t know where to turn. If I was alone, I’d perhaps commit suicide, or make for some remote place . . . I see myself as a discarded product of a discarded civilization, believing nothing, hoping for nothing, fearing nothing except the consciousness of my own melancholy. Two nights ago, as I was getting into bed, I thought: Perhaps I’ll die in my sleep tonight, and never wake again. And it was like the parched sailor in The Ancient Mariner crying: ‘A sail! A sail!’

[Three months on, the following appears in a diary entry for March 6, 1935:]

These days are the unhappiest I have ever lived. They are so unhappy that I can’t quite believe in them. They pass, and I scarely notice. Yesterday I went to a huge cocktail party that Moore gave, and told and listened to stale jokes, and got rather tight . . .

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