Read "The Postmaster of Market Deignton" by E. Phillips Oppenheim online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
We human beings are strange creatures. Yesterday morning I should have embraced with considerable eagerness any honourable means of trying my fate in a better or a worse world. This morning I have not the faintest desire for a less material or even an altered state of existence. My feet are upon the earth again, and the savour of living is as sweet as ever. I am one with my fellowkind, and disposed to be friendly with all men. The exhilaration of last night has rather increased than abated. It is true that I had only a few hours' sleep, but I have risen perfectly refreshed. I have eaten my breakfast with most unusual appetite, and I find the flavour of my morning cigarette excellent. I have not the faintest desire to throw myself into the arms of Heine or Owen Meredith or Coleridge, and to drift with them into the dark waters. My affinities with the literature of despair and the poetry of pessimism are suddenly sundered. If I felt like reading at all, I should probably take down Sterne, or one of the milder humorists. As I don't, I content myself with standing in a comfortable position before the fire in my room, looking out across the market-place, bright with a day of unexpected sunshine, and listening for the shop bell.
And after all, what does it mean--the exhilaration of last night and the content of this morning? Just a gleam of hope, that is all--just a little rift in the clouds which may close together again before evening.