For five years, I’ve ceased to experience with shame what can be experienced with pleasure and triumph (sexuality, jealousy, class differences). Shame spreads over everything, prevents any further progress.

I also thought that writing acted as a kind of morality for me. That is why I didn’t want to have affairs before, so I wouldn’t lose the obsession with writing. For a long time, a life of pleasure seemed impossible to me (it even does now) because I write. I forgave my husband’s pleasure seeking because he didn’t write. What else is there to do when you don’t write? Eat, drink, and make love.