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.
What am I setting up for myself, here? Some happiness, perhaps. I’m calm, and in good spirits, quietly, as if something important and good were about to happen. I’m not scared or nervous. I can’t even imagine it, how it will be, what it will look like, what felicities or clumsinesses either of us w…
