Adieu!

Goodbye, cruel, vain and unappreciative world!

Here, in my mortal hand, wield I, Aloysius of the House of Dav, my goodly six-iron - gifted, incidentally, to me, by the Baron de Rothschild in a moment of caprice, and with which I intend to offer my corporeal self on the altar of the unflinching gods.

True, the celestial ones blessed me profoundly: looks, wit, fashion sense and good hair - all of these were mine. Yet what of that? All is meaningless in light of humanity's indifference!

No amount of talent could make up for the fact that I remain unlauded, undiscovered. I suppose I should have applied myself more, taken more intiative. But all of that is so plebeian, so unbearably vulgar! Far better this than any such concession to mundanity.

But ah, how this has cost me. And I don't just mean in terms of drycleaning my Dolce e Gabbana jeans. Nor my Savile Row three-piecers.

No, I speak of the wrenching cost in terms of self regard, self love - amour-propre, which relies, alas, on the estimation of others.

When one is unloved, uncared for, unnoticed and, oh - cruelest of all! - unworshipped, one may as well shuffle off this mortal coil. And that right quickly.

Speak not to me of gratitude. What know you of self pity, gentles?

'Tis true, I graced the finest schools, mingled with the finest minds and ate at the finest tables.

'Tis true, I led a life of ease and plenty with little to show for it after all these years.

Every manner of opportunity might have been mine had I but tried a little more diligently to make my mark. Been just that smidgen more - dare I say - industrious. Bold. Not to mention, just a fraction less entitled.

Had I had a little more humility, a willingness to - as Americans like to put it - suck it up.

But the die is cast, the fates have decided and the oracle has spoken. Aloysius must perish, for he cannot lower himself to labor like the hoi polloi, merely to earn the respect and praise he craves.

In the words of the gracious Puck: "I go, I go; look how I go/ Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow."

(Act III, scene ii)

Adieu!