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[...] But Max is there, strong shoulders, clean scent of soap, soft facial hair on my neck, his mouth, I seek it out, our exchanges, I know things, he talks to me, tells me things he says he’s told no one else, not even his wife, she doesn’t know anything about his childhood, she wouldn’t understan…

I looked for Max in his office today at the usual time and he wasn’t there. I saw him at Lacan and we sat apart and we didn’t speak. He sat with another young woman, blonde hair, blue dress. Is he testing me? Lacan spoke about Plato, The Symposium, a text I’d heard about but never been taught, it s…

Max went with me to see the maestro today, at the faculté de droit. He spoke before, I don’t know, a couple hundred people, mostly students training to be analysts, but also scholars in other fields, and even, I heard, some actors. He’s a man of science who speaks like a mystic. Every word has its …

Florence is reading Willa Cather. What is she thinking, as she lies there, what is she thinking. Florence on the couch, her eyes closed, her personality off. The way she looks lying there. Like at night, in the bed beside me. So tame, on her side, gently snoring. And then she turns over and she’s s…

Florence is practising the piano and I want to go out. I don’t want to go out with her but I want to go out and if I want to go out I have to run it past her. It’s an antisocial act, a marriage-betraying act, simply to leave. So I sit here behind her, watching her back, waiting for a pause.

When…