December 23, 1938 Friday

S.U. In a.m. took a horn lesson at Mr. Beedle’s house. In p.m. rested. Played ping-pong. In evening played ping-pong with Bob. In the last game he won 23-21. Teribly hard-fought and drawn-out. At the end I was all tired out. The poison of defeat amking me feel more so. Not anger but just stinging disappointment. Why is it that after such a feeling everything good seems so soft and sissy and shallow? Is tragedy stronger than success?