I have these dreams of dropping a large fellowship check on Tom's desk and saying, "Look! I earned this!" and then watching him pay all the bills. But that never seems to happen. Nonetheless, even if expected, the receipt of two giant rejection letters within 24 hours is requiring me to readjust my rhinoceros cloak. The problem with applying for anything is that I have to get my hopes up. Then, when they are dashed, I'm never quite sure about which response angle to take: (1) to accept that my work isn't good enough to pay any bills or (2) to presume that the rejecting institution doesn't know squat. Neither response affects the actual growth of my writing. (1) merely makes me gloomy, while (2) merely makes me shrill. So I suppose I'll do what I always do, which is to feel sad plus resigned plus falsely cheery plus busy plus distracted into forgetting about the situation until the next time I have to apply for something. If I weren't, at heart, an ostrich with my head in the sand, I would never write a word.

from Sally Hastings's letter [October 23, 1800]

When we arrived at the Inn, and found it full of Men of a Savage appearance, in an outlandish dress, our short interval of Joy was succeeded by Perplexity and Terror.