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?