791
1967–1980: Return to France
0
terms
3
notes
827
1/5/70
These are “man of the house” problems, for I do think if it concerned a married couple, the husband would worry more than the wife, as he would be expected to deal with them. No wonder men die a bit earlier than their wives. It’s 3:30 AM. I lie in bed reading in this first hideous month without my cat, wishing I could find some consolation somewhere. It is to be found neither in friends nor in success in work, I think, because I have both, and declined an invitation to dinner for tomorrow. I keep trying to grasp within myself (actually by working) the solace and security I need. To look outside—just to have the company of other people—seems escape—though I write an absurd amount of letters. Obviously I am self-absorbed. But what writer isn’t? My besetting sin—lately—is that I reproach myself too much. I am constantly telling myself I don’t accomplish enough, I don’t work fast enough, I could do better. (This perhaps is not even the opinion of people who know me.) Alas, it is so difficult for me to know when to flog myself, when to say “Thank God (or luck) that I have done as well as I have”—or am doing as well. What is this terrible drive? It makes me miserable. The only consolation (one must find one) is that there are other tormented ones who scribble such things in the early hours of the morning.
1/5/70
These are “man of the house” problems, for I do think if it concerned a married couple, the husband would worry more than the wife, as he would be expected to deal with them. No wonder men die a bit earlier than their wives. It’s 3:30 AM. I lie in bed reading in this first hideous month without my cat, wishing I could find some consolation somewhere. It is to be found neither in friends nor in success in work, I think, because I have both, and declined an invitation to dinner for tomorrow. I keep trying to grasp within myself (actually by working) the solace and security I need. To look outside—just to have the company of other people—seems escape—though I write an absurd amount of letters. Obviously I am self-absorbed. But what writer isn’t? My besetting sin—lately—is that I reproach myself too much. I am constantly telling myself I don’t accomplish enough, I don’t work fast enough, I could do better. (This perhaps is not even the opinion of people who know me.) Alas, it is so difficult for me to know when to flog myself, when to say “Thank God (or luck) that I have done as well as I have”—or am doing as well. What is this terrible drive? It makes me miserable. The only consolation (one must find one) is that there are other tormented ones who scribble such things in the early hours of the morning.
840
9/12/71
What troubles the small and the great is the difficulty of reconciling their personal dramas with such things as the moon in its course, the strength of the sea, the inevitability of death. Everyone feels so small, yet his problems shake him with the force of hurricanes. It does not make sense.
9/12/71
What troubles the small and the great is the difficulty of reconciling their personal dramas with such things as the moon in its course, the strength of the sea, the inevitability of death. Everyone feels so small, yet his problems shake him with the force of hurricanes. It does not make sense.
878
1/31/77
If one’s entire life is work, preparation, diligence, eternally aiming toward something as a student aims toward a diploma, it is bewildering to reach the goal—or even 90% of it. What does one do then? And why? Was the objective money? No. Leisure? No. Fame? Again no. Just an abstract excellence really. One can have the same feeling at seventeen or nineteen, having written a short-story word perfect, or nearly so.
1/31/77
If one’s entire life is work, preparation, diligence, eternally aiming toward something as a student aims toward a diploma, it is bewildering to reach the goal—or even 90% of it. What does one do then? And why? Was the objective money? No. Leisure? No. Fame? Again no. Just an abstract excellence really. One can have the same feeling at seventeen or nineteen, having written a short-story word perfect, or nearly so.