"And yet he was not
happy – nor comfortable. There was
a hard, opposing core in him, that neither the whisky nor the woman could
dissolve or soothe, to-night. It remained hard, nay became harder and more
deeply antagonistic to his surroundings, every moment. He recognized it as a
secret malady he suffered from: this strained, unacknowledged opposition to his
surroundings, a hard core of irrational, exhausting withholding of himself.
Irritating, because he still wanted to
give himself. A woman and whisky,
these were usually a remedy – and music. But lately these had begun to fail
him. No, there was something in him that would not give in – neither to the
whisky, nor the woman, nor even the music. Even in the midst of his best music,
it sat deep established in him, this obstinate black dog, and growled and
wasnever cajoled. He knew of its presence – and was a little uneasy. For, of
course, he wanted to let himself go:
to feel rosy and loving and all that. But at the very thought, the black dog
showed its teeth."
