Page:Weird Tales volume 30 number 06.djvu/90

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January 13, 1937 HAVE been writing all the evening, alone in my room, alone in my little house in the uncomprehending city of Toulon, the lonely refuge I have crept into to get away from the world. When a man tires himself out, when he takes too strenuous a part in the various painful agitations of active life, he grows old rapidly. I have not yet lived fifty years on this earth, but my hair is white and my thoughts are as gray as ashes

I am writing in my room, all alone. Alone in a sense, that is. My black cat is with me. He is asleep, curled up in his armchair, which is an exact duplicate of mine. He and I spend a great deal of time together in these great, heavy twin chairs, upholstered in tan velvet. My black cat's name is Kara Kedi, which is Turkish for just that—I mean, for "black cat." I didn't waste a great deal of imagination in naming him. Kara Kedi was born in Turkey, at Stamboul, in the holy suburb of Eyoub. That was back in the days when I was deep in love with the Circassian girl. Ah, how blond her hair was, and how brown her skin was! And how sweet her kisses were!

But there is no burning passion in my cottage tonight. Kara Kedi's chair is comfortable, and he sleeps very soundly, so that I am really alone in my room, alone in my dreary little house. My little house is a gimcrack of a place, with a little garden that runs all around it. To the right and left are little gardens very much like mine, about tiny little houses very much like mine. My neighbor on the right is a very dirty, very polite, and very deaf old sailor. My neighbor on the left is a pretty little young woman, very charming and very candid, who is constantly laughing and