When it comes to love, a generous degree of maladjustment should be expected. Most of the women I want do not want me; conversely, most of the women who want me I myself do not want. So, there is a kind of justice that prevails most of the time. There is hardly any place for complaint in these matters. At least, that is how I feel at present.

Of course, there are exceptions—fruitful matches do occur every once in a while. Either I reluctantly acquiesce to a particular match due to special circumstances beyond my control, or a woman does the same at a particular time and place with respect to me. For better or worse, these exceptions are both intermittent and temporary.

Rarely, if ever, is such an arrangement balanced, let alone lasting. Miracles do happen, as far as I can judge, but only a couple of times during a lifetime. Even if the match appears perfect at first sight, very soon it transpires that it cannot endure for very long. There is always something in the way.

This picture is further complicated by the fact that episodes of courtship and rejection or evasion tend to overlap in an unpredictable fashion. At any one time there may be a number of women in my field of vision, some of whom I am pursuing, and by some of whom I am being pursued. A sui generis calculus of pleasure and pain is consequently often required.

Naturally, periods of quiescence—when the peace and quiet are not even noticed—counterbalance periods of feverish activity. In this there is a measure of justice, as well. All things considered, I feel that the pangs of unreturned infatuation, if not true love, I have been experiencing lately should be taken with an even temper and with a sense of something akin to reconciliation. What else could I be expected to do in this predicament, anyway?