Borrowing a passage from Stephen MacKenna on this close, gray morning.
August 13 1908
A day of nothingness, of prehumous death: pains and laze and brainlessness. Probably I could have saved this day and given it some value, had I but frankly from the early morning proclaimed it a day of rest: it is always nobler to rest diligently than to work listlessly. Life is in activity, and if one can’t be active in work, the only living is to be lively in play. If one can’t write seriously, one can read seriously: if one can’t read long, perhaps one can think long: if one has no thoughts, one can read lightly: if one can’t read light things or talk pleasantly, then better to go to sleep, thus at last doing something seriously useful. If sin is sin by dampening life, then a morose dawdling is among the deadliest of sins; it is a very subtle shaft of the Gille nach chorp. Few acts could sink a man further from God’s service, or from the mastery of himself more fatally or more miserably, than spineless discontented actlessness.