Activity

The flight to Sydney lasted only five minutes because I was reading Marguerite Duras’ La Douleur. When her husband comes back after the war I cried so much my face twitched, I had to wipe my eyes on my skirt. ‘I remember the sobbing all through the house, the tenants lingering on the stairs, the do…

One day I’ll have to burn this book. I use as buckets of cold water thoughts of his wife’s preparations for Christmas.

The only way I can have anything to do with him is by (a) lies and (b) hurting someone. Am I prepared to do this?

Gloomily coming into my bedroom I stump towards the bed and see the mess of New York Reviews beside it, and a copy of Joan London’s stories that are so beautiful, and I think, Whatever happens, I’ve got this one little power—I’m a writer. I can use everything that happens, I can use it and shape …

I see that what I am doing, in this diary, is conducting an argument with myself, about these two men, and myself, and men in general.