458
SEPTEMBER 21, 1949
To the Grotta Azzurra with K. Very cluttered with rowboats, so certainly 50% of the light was obscured. What a shame. Caught the 4:10 bus back to Napoli. Then the parting. And the rushing. Grapes. And a last dinner with K. I in my white suit, which I’d wanted to wear the first evening with her. We dined—indifferently—at the vine balcony restaurant of our first lunch. K. often holds me, looks earnestly into my face, and kisses me on the lips. What does she wish me to say further? (I have said nothing.) She doesn’t wish anything. But mightn’t I? Plans—does K. want them? I know it is I who do not want them. That K. could more easily bear than I could say, I shall come to London next year and we shall live together. No, I don’t not know what I want. With perfect equanimity, I can contemplate nothing but brief affairs—promiscuous ones—in N.Y. And yet I hope for a jolt (of time, in time) to crystallize my desires. I long to write, and dream of its coming out easily as a spider’s web. Now I know why I keep a diary. I am not at peace until I continue the thread into the present. I am interested in analyzing myself, in trying to discover the reasons why I do such & such. I cannot do this without dropping dried peas behind me to help me retrace my course, to point a straight line in the darkness.
SEPTEMBER 21, 1949
To the Grotta Azzurra with K. Very cluttered with rowboats, so certainly 50% of the light was obscured. What a shame. Caught the 4:10 bus back to Napoli. Then the parting. And the rushing. Grapes. And a last dinner with K. I in my white suit, which I’d wanted to wear the first evening with her. We dined—indifferently—at the vine balcony restaurant of our first lunch. K. often holds me, looks earnestly into my face, and kisses me on the lips. What does she wish me to say further? (I have said nothing.) She doesn’t wish anything. But mightn’t I? Plans—does K. want them? I know it is I who do not want them. That K. could more easily bear than I could say, I shall come to London next year and we shall live together. No, I don’t not know what I want. With perfect equanimity, I can contemplate nothing but brief affairs—promiscuous ones—in N.Y. And yet I hope for a jolt (of time, in time) to crystallize my desires. I long to write, and dream of its coming out easily as a spider’s web. Now I know why I keep a diary. I am not at peace until I continue the thread into the present. I am interested in analyzing myself, in trying to discover the reasons why I do such & such. I cannot do this without dropping dried peas behind me to help me retrace my course, to point a straight line in the darkness.
461
OCTOBER 24, 1949
This day completely yielded to being in love with K. What happiness upon admitting it, believing it, fully. The future suddenly spreads wide, revealing a whole golden-pink horizon. I have not been so happy since Ginnie. Jeanne called in at 9. I kissed her finally, chez elle—(why else did she ask me up?) and though she is engaged, to a numbskull, I gather, aged 35, I am quite sure she will be available. The spirit of reconquest, of ego, (of evil) motivates me tonight and tomorrow.
OCTOBER 24, 1949
This day completely yielded to being in love with K. What happiness upon admitting it, believing it, fully. The future suddenly spreads wide, revealing a whole golden-pink horizon. I have not been so happy since Ginnie. Jeanne called in at 9. I kissed her finally, chez elle—(why else did she ask me up?) and though she is engaged, to a numbskull, I gather, aged 35, I am quite sure she will be available. The spirit of reconquest, of ego, (of evil) motivates me tonight and tomorrow.
474
JANUARY 19, 1950
My birthday. 29. Work—I thought that the comics might be stimulating now. Unfortunately not. However, the checks will doubtless be. But the stories—! With the family tonight. martinis, good French wine, presents. And a check over $20 for a macintosh. Couldn’t sleep tonight. I think of Lyne—who tickles my curiosity, that’s all. Isn’t that normal after three weeks together? And I was also thinking about my life. I should be writing now. I cannot possibly justify these two months I plan to work on comics. I don’t get any younger.
JANUARY 19, 1950
My birthday. 29. Work—I thought that the comics might be stimulating now. Unfortunately not. However, the checks will doubtless be. But the stories—! With the family tonight. martinis, good French wine, presents. And a check over $20 for a macintosh. Couldn’t sleep tonight. I think of Lyne—who tickles my curiosity, that’s all. Isn’t that normal after three weeks together? And I was also thinking about my life. I should be writing now. I cannot possibly justify these two months I plan to work on comics. I don’t get any younger.
483
5/7/50
It is freedom, which muddles a man up. I am not advocating totalitarianism. But a writer must learn how to impose his own totalitarianisms upon himself, himself being sole governor, knowing that he is free to change discipline and routine after due process of altering within himself his legislation.
5/7/50
It is freedom, which muddles a man up. I am not advocating totalitarianism. But a writer must learn how to impose his own totalitarianisms upon himself, himself being sole governor, knowing that he is free to change discipline and routine after due process of altering within himself his legislation.
523
JULY 4, 1951
Tonight I felt fat, old, I heard my heart and felt mortal as mortal can be. It startled me so, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I was alone, a physical body that one day would run down and die and be buried. So I thought. It was dreadful. And unforgettable. Thirty—what a turning point. I remember Natalia’s saying in Capri: “Thirty? You don’t begin to live until you are 30.” Tonight. My movie opened, I believe.
JULY 4, 1951
Tonight I felt fat, old, I heard my heart and felt mortal as mortal can be. It startled me so, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I was alone, a physical body that one day would run down and die and be buried. So I thought. It was dreadful. And unforgettable. Thirty—what a turning point. I remember Natalia’s saying in Capri: “Thirty? You don’t begin to live until you are 30.” Tonight. My movie opened, I believe.
529
8/31/51
As to plot: to what end is individual man tending? What does he want or aim for? To leave his son with a better established business than his father left him? To die wealthy? To enjoy life as soon as possible, and as much as possible? To win the love of a certain woman? To acquire fame as a scientist? A writer? A musical comedy singer? To visit every country in the world? (No, that passes.) To understand the world as a philosopher? Most people in my book have forgotten, gradually and in the abrasive rush of time, the sharp pricking edges, the arresting colors, of their original ambitions. Their ambitions are like old lost loves, pricking them to dull attention in the middle of a drink, of a conversation, with a dulled recognition. “That is mine,” they realize suddenly, as they would think on seeing a photograph of the girl they once slept with: “She was mine once!” To make a plot of individual objectives and to see them lost and forgotten, that is logically the plot of The Sleepless Night. Carry the reader on as the ambitions carry the characters on for certain periods of time. Then simple life takes over.
8/31/51
As to plot: to what end is individual man tending? What does he want or aim for? To leave his son with a better established business than his father left him? To die wealthy? To enjoy life as soon as possible, and as much as possible? To win the love of a certain woman? To acquire fame as a scientist? A writer? A musical comedy singer? To visit every country in the world? (No, that passes.) To understand the world as a philosopher? Most people in my book have forgotten, gradually and in the abrasive rush of time, the sharp pricking edges, the arresting colors, of their original ambitions. Their ambitions are like old lost loves, pricking them to dull attention in the middle of a drink, of a conversation, with a dulled recognition. “That is mine,” they realize suddenly, as they would think on seeing a photograph of the girl they once slept with: “She was mine once!” To make a plot of individual objectives and to see them lost and forgotten, that is logically the plot of The Sleepless Night. Carry the reader on as the ambitions carry the characters on for certain periods of time. Then simple life takes over.
537
10/4/51
Autumns in the heart, and old tragedy, tears, the echo of pain and the hollow echo of a cry aloud in the midst of weeping. I stared at her until I no longer knew her or her name, knew only her form and her bones and the shadows at the sockets of her eyes, and then I began to draw, while the radio played a Chopin étude. Oh how beautifully my pen behaved! The autumn came swiftly, a rising shadow of night, telling me, one day you will no longer be with her, whom you love now, but your hand in drawing, your talent and your desire, your courage, your selflessness, your happiness when you draw, these will always be with you, be you seventy and toothless, poor and alone, but she? She under the light now—I can hear her breathing—she will be gone, and worse, almost forgotten. The tragic chorus chanted in my heart, and I followed the distant play closely, tears coming to my eyes.
10/4/51
Autumns in the heart, and old tragedy, tears, the echo of pain and the hollow echo of a cry aloud in the midst of weeping. I stared at her until I no longer knew her or her name, knew only her form and her bones and the shadows at the sockets of her eyes, and then I began to draw, while the radio played a Chopin étude. Oh how beautifully my pen behaved! The autumn came swiftly, a rising shadow of night, telling me, one day you will no longer be with her, whom you love now, but your hand in drawing, your talent and your desire, your courage, your selflessness, your happiness when you draw, these will always be with you, be you seventy and toothless, poor and alone, but she? She under the light now—I can hear her breathing—she will be gone, and worse, almost forgotten. The tragic chorus chanted in my heart, and I followed the distant play closely, tears coming to my eyes.
559
5/7/52
With these serious people, these bons vivants, who take so much more seriously their amusements, their aesthetic surroundings, than any artist takes his work or his creative process, the creative process begins to atrophy in their presence, for the curious reason that their pursuit of pleasure is so business like. And once they have it—pleasant café-bars, shopping-centers, an efficient maid, a garden, sunlight, then life, instead of relaxing, becomes shopping, getting repairs done, planning, anxiously, next summer’s vacation: in short, the element of pleasing, of amusement, goes out of the artist companion, and he can no longer find his proper plane. Amusement, entertainment, via writing, disappears in a fantastic world somewhere far away. As is usual, the paradox in this fascinates me.
5/7/52
With these serious people, these bons vivants, who take so much more seriously their amusements, their aesthetic surroundings, than any artist takes his work or his creative process, the creative process begins to atrophy in their presence, for the curious reason that their pursuit of pleasure is so business like. And once they have it—pleasant café-bars, shopping-centers, an efficient maid, a garden, sunlight, then life, instead of relaxing, becomes shopping, getting repairs done, planning, anxiously, next summer’s vacation: in short, the element of pleasing, of amusement, goes out of the artist companion, and he can no longer find his proper plane. Amusement, entertainment, via writing, disappears in a fantastic world somewhere far away. As is usual, the paradox in this fascinates me.
560
MAY 8, 1952
More and more often I think back on Joan S., and feel my leaving her for Ginnie was the greatest mistake I ever made, both emotionally, and for my career. There is doubtless something like this in everyone’s life. That is why life on earth is not entirely heaven. Nor entirely hell, thanks to these pleasures snatched, even if paid for so dearly.
MAY 8, 1952
More and more often I think back on Joan S., and feel my leaving her for Ginnie was the greatest mistake I ever made, both emotionally, and for my career. There is doubtless something like this in everyone’s life. That is why life on earth is not entirely heaven. Nor entirely hell, thanks to these pleasures snatched, even if paid for so dearly.
577
10/28/52
The really depressing thing about being depressed is that one’s own thoughts and their obvious courses (into all the little cul-de-sacs of impossibility) are so ordinary. To a much stupider man than myself, the same thoughts would occur, one realizes. And worst of all, the same emotions! A human creature, torn apart on the old rack of indecision and ambivalence of desire, is like any dog hesitating between the fleeing squirrel and the terrified, paralyzed rabbit—and losing both!
10/28/52
The really depressing thing about being depressed is that one’s own thoughts and their obvious courses (into all the little cul-de-sacs of impossibility) are so ordinary. To a much stupider man than myself, the same thoughts would occur, one realizes. And worst of all, the same emotions! A human creature, torn apart on the old rack of indecision and ambivalence of desire, is like any dog hesitating between the fleeing squirrel and the terrified, paralyzed rabbit—and losing both!