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He urged me to take up this diary again. I see the gimmick perfectly well—he is trying to give me back an interest in myself, to reconstruct my identity for me. But the only thing that counts is Maurice. My self, what does that amount to? I have never paid much attention to it. I was safe, because he loved me. If he does not love me anymore.… It is only the transition that haunts my mind—how have I deserved it that he should no longer love me? Or have I not deserved it, and is he a swine—a swine that should be punished, and his accomplice with him? Dr. Marquet sets about it at the other end—my father, my mother, my father’s death: he wants to make me talk about myself, and I only want to talk to him about Maurice and Noëllie. Still, I did ask him whether he thought me intelligent. Yes, undoubtedly; but intelligence is not a quality with an independent existence: when I go on and on pursuing my obsessions, my intelligence is no longer available to me.
STOP
“You just won’t talk to me about myself: do you think so very badly of me then?”
“What a notion!”
“I know I am being a bore. But I do want to see clearly into my past.”
“It’s the future that counts. Find yourself some men. Or take a job.”
“No. I need your father.”
“Maybe he’ll come back to you.”
“You know perfectly well he won’t.”
We have had this conversation ten times over. I bore her too; I exasperate her. Perhaps if I were to push her far enough she would end up by breaking out and telling me. But she has such patience that I lose heart. Who knows but they may have written to her to tell her about my case and beg her to bear with me?
lol
I asked her what she thought of her father.
“Oh, for my part, I don’t sit in judgment on anyone.”
“You don’t think he has behaved like a swine?”
“Frankly, no. He is certainly kidding himself about this woman. He’s a simpleminded soul. But not a swine.”
“You think he has the right to sacrifice me?”
“Obviously it’s tough on you. But why should he sacrifice himself? I know very well I should not sacrifice myself for anyone on earth.”
“There you are, that’s one of your words. It really has no meaning as far as I am concerned.”
“Then that is to say you’re not happy.”
Aggressively she replied, “My life suits me splendidly.”
Work, going out, brief encounters: it seems an arid sort of an existence to me. She has rough ways, spurts of impatience—not only with me—that seem to betray a conflict. This is certainly my fault too, this refusal of love: my sentimentality sickened her, and she has warped herself in trying not to be like me. There is something stiff, almost unpleasing, about her ways. She has introduced some of the men she knows and I have been struck by her attitude with them—always on the watch, remote, hard; there is no mirth in her laughter.
:/
She seemed embarrassed. “And what about you—how do you see yourself?”
“As a marshland. Everything is buried in the mud.”
“You’ll find yourself again.”
No: and perhaps that is the worst side of it all. It is only now that I realize how much value I had for myself, fundamentally. But Maurice has murdered all the words by which I might try to justify it: he has repudiated the standards by which I measured others and myself; I had never dreamed of challenging them—that is to say of challenging myself. And now what I wonder is this: what right had I to say that the inner life was preferable to a merely social life, contemplation to trifling amusements, and self-sacrifice to ambition? My only life had been to create happiness around me. I have not made Maurice happy. And my daughters are not happy either. So what then? I no longer know anything. Not only do I not know what kind of a person I am, but also I do not know what kind of a person I ought to be. Black and white merge into one another, the world is an amorphous mass, and I no longer have any clear outlines. How is it possible to live without believing in anything or in myself?