373
10/6/46
The farmer and the poet, providers of our physical and spiritual nourishment, are the least rewarded members of our society. At times it seems writing has only an amusement value. So be it, good enough. Then one is brought, by the death of a friend, at a funeral service, to the realization that these phrases of God’s provision and refuge are not for rare occasions, as we hear them, but for all times and places.
10/6/46
The farmer and the poet, providers of our physical and spiritual nourishment, are the least rewarded members of our society. At times it seems writing has only an amusement value. So be it, good enough. Then one is brought, by the death of a friend, at a funeral service, to the realization that these phrases of God’s provision and refuge are not for rare occasions, as we hear them, but for all times and places.
375
11/4/46
I can never be moderate in anything—not sleeping, eating, working, loving. Who realizes this understands me (who wants to?) but still does not predict me.
11/4/46
I can never be moderate in anything—not sleeping, eating, working, loving. Who realizes this understands me (who wants to?) but still does not predict me.
377
11/11/46
Pain sends one wandering into the dusk, the dusk of New York. It is all at once all sadness, all beauty, the soft blue gray of the air (and the gray will win), the yellow white red green lights that hang on the blue grayness like ornaments upon a Christmas tree. For it is near Christmas. Christmas, and the one we love! But she will not be with us. She has never been with us for Christmas and will never be. She is gone, she is dead, and all you have of her are the memories bound up in yourself that you carry on and on through the dusk. All at once this terrible sadness, inarticulate in the terrible beauty of dusk! Sadness so strange and beautiful and perfectly pure itself, it almost produces a kind of happiness. Where shall I not wander in the years to come? Through so many more dusks, beloved!
11/11/46
Pain sends one wandering into the dusk, the dusk of New York. It is all at once all sadness, all beauty, the soft blue gray of the air (and the gray will win), the yellow white red green lights that hang on the blue grayness like ornaments upon a Christmas tree. For it is near Christmas. Christmas, and the one we love! But she will not be with us. She has never been with us for Christmas and will never be. She is gone, she is dead, and all you have of her are the memories bound up in yourself that you carry on and on through the dusk. All at once this terrible sadness, inarticulate in the terrible beauty of dusk! Sadness so strange and beautiful and perfectly pure itself, it almost produces a kind of happiness. Where shall I not wander in the years to come? Through so many more dusks, beloved!
385
1/31/47
A writer should not think himself a different kind of person from any other, since this is the way to the promontory. He has developed a certain part of himself which is contained in every man: the seeing, the setting down. Only in the realization of this humble and heroic fact can he become what he must be, a medium, a pane of glass between God on the one side and man on the other.
1/31/47
A writer should not think himself a different kind of person from any other, since this is the way to the promontory. He has developed a certain part of himself which is contained in every man: the seeing, the setting down. Only in the realization of this humble and heroic fact can he become what he must be, a medium, a pane of glass between God on the one side and man on the other.
390
APRIL 12, 1947
Reading Dostoyevsky’s letters. Wonderful. Too bad I can’t interest G. in them. I give her so much to read—and nothing comes of it. Tonight, she wanted to see “people.” So after dinner at the restaurant, we took the car to see Texas E. Very pleasant time. Later we two went to Soho (a Bistro Night Club) where I was frightfully bored. And when we got home at 11:15, I cried. Suddenly it seemed like everything was impossible. The old story: I want to stay home and read, and she wants to go out. I want her to find someone else for her evenings. Ginnie said that these differences are always canceled out by men and women: that they somehow always go on being happy, etc. And though I can’t recall her words exactly, I knew then that she was right. I am the serious fool. Read P. [Paris] Review until 12:30—about Kafka and people like me, until I felt strong and happy again.
APRIL 12, 1947
Reading Dostoyevsky’s letters. Wonderful. Too bad I can’t interest G. in them. I give her so much to read—and nothing comes of it. Tonight, she wanted to see “people.” So after dinner at the restaurant, we took the car to see Texas E. Very pleasant time. Later we two went to Soho (a Bistro Night Club) where I was frightfully bored. And when we got home at 11:15, I cried. Suddenly it seemed like everything was impossible. The old story: I want to stay home and read, and she wants to go out. I want her to find someone else for her evenings. Ginnie said that these differences are always canceled out by men and women: that they somehow always go on being happy, etc. And though I can’t recall her words exactly, I knew then that she was right. I am the serious fool. Read P. [Paris] Review until 12:30—about Kafka and people like me, until I felt strong and happy again.
391
4/17/47
The essence of unreality in the modern world: (is not nightclubs, but) to look for work in the late afternoon, by appointment even, after having worked at one’s own work all day. Now I know how A.C. [Allela Cornell] felt after a morning’s painting when she called at a comics’ outfit. The oppressive tedium and fatigue about it all—making one’s effort at interest, readiness, simple alertness sour in the mouth. Beware these tireless slaves! How do they do it themselves? (Do you really want to know?) Where are their moments of reality—at the breakfast table, in bed with their wives? Gardening? Washing their cars? Or are they another species of animal that does not need reality?
4/17/47
The essence of unreality in the modern world: (is not nightclubs, but) to look for work in the late afternoon, by appointment even, after having worked at one’s own work all day. Now I know how A.C. [Allela Cornell] felt after a morning’s painting when she called at a comics’ outfit. The oppressive tedium and fatigue about it all—making one’s effort at interest, readiness, simple alertness sour in the mouth. Beware these tireless slaves! How do they do it themselves? (Do you really want to know?) Where are their moments of reality—at the breakfast table, in bed with their wives? Gardening? Washing their cars? Or are they another species of animal that does not need reality?
394
5/11/47
That an individual’s faults are never quite without pardon, unforgivable—this is perhaps the only adult entry I have ever made in these bloody fifteen cahiers.
5/11/47
That an individual’s faults are never quite without pardon, unforgivable—this is perhaps the only adult entry I have ever made in these bloody fifteen cahiers.
400
9/3/47
Advice to a young writer: approach the typewriter with respect and formality. (Is my hair combed? My lipstick on straight? Above all are my cuffs clean and properly shot?) The typewriter is quick to detect any nuance of irreverence and can retaliate in kind, in double measure, and effortlessly. The typewriter is above all alert, sensitive as you are, far more efficient in its tasks. After all, it slept better than you did last night, and just a little longer.
9/3/47
Advice to a young writer: approach the typewriter with respect and formality. (Is my hair combed? My lipstick on straight? Above all are my cuffs clean and properly shot?) The typewriter is quick to detect any nuance of irreverence and can retaliate in kind, in double measure, and effortlessly. The typewriter is above all alert, sensitive as you are, far more efficient in its tasks. After all, it slept better than you did last night, and just a little longer.
404
10/23/47
4:00 A.M. I cannot live alone in health. In the night, alone, awake after sleep, I am insane. I read Gertrude Stein. I eat like a Cyclopian giant, only my wine and my whiskey do not make me sleep. I do not desire anyone vaguely or specifically: I merely say, if I had so-and-so, I should not be insane now. I am without discretion, judgment, moral code. There is nothing I would not do, murder, destruction, vile sexual practices. I would also, however, read my Bible. My being is rent with frustration like the curtain before the false temple. Yes, I long to meet a beautiful woman at a tiny black table somewhere, and kiss her hand, and talk of things that would delight her. I long to pare myself as I long to pare my art of the extraneous that corrupts it. It must come first in my work. I drink whiskey to stupefy myself, and regret what it does to my body—fat cells, deterioration of the brain, above all indulgence in a dependence upon materiality when what keeps me awake is a spiritual intangible.
10/23/47
4:00 A.M. I cannot live alone in health. In the night, alone, awake after sleep, I am insane. I read Gertrude Stein. I eat like a Cyclopian giant, only my wine and my whiskey do not make me sleep. I do not desire anyone vaguely or specifically: I merely say, if I had so-and-so, I should not be insane now. I am without discretion, judgment, moral code. There is nothing I would not do, murder, destruction, vile sexual practices. I would also, however, read my Bible. My being is rent with frustration like the curtain before the false temple. Yes, I long to meet a beautiful woman at a tiny black table somewhere, and kiss her hand, and talk of things that would delight her. I long to pare myself as I long to pare my art of the extraneous that corrupts it. It must come first in my work. I drink whiskey to stupefy myself, and regret what it does to my body—fat cells, deterioration of the brain, above all indulgence in a dependence upon materiality when what keeps me awake is a spiritual intangible.
429
5/15/48
Please try to notice if every artist isn’t ruthless in some way. Even the sweetest of characters have done something, generally because of their creative life, that to the rest of the world is inhuman. Some cases are more obvious, others may be more concealed. I know mine exists, my cruelty. Though where, I cannot precisely say, for I try always to purge myself of evil. Generally it is selfishness in an artist. And because he subjects himself so cheerfully to all kinds of privations for his art, it is difficult for him to see wherein he has been guilty of selfishness. He sees it as selfishness for such an obviously worthy cause, too. Generally, in one form or another, it is a self-preservative selfishness, in regard to his not giving enough of himself to the world or another person.
5/15/48
Please try to notice if every artist isn’t ruthless in some way. Even the sweetest of characters have done something, generally because of their creative life, that to the rest of the world is inhuman. Some cases are more obvious, others may be more concealed. I know mine exists, my cruelty. Though where, I cannot precisely say, for I try always to purge myself of evil. Generally it is selfishness in an artist. And because he subjects himself so cheerfully to all kinds of privations for his art, it is difficult for him to see wherein he has been guilty of selfishness. He sees it as selfishness for such an obviously worthy cause, too. Generally, in one form or another, it is a self-preservative selfishness, in regard to his not giving enough of himself to the world or another person.