11:10
a.m., Cambridge City Library, Lion Yard.
It
is a somewhat cloudy, cold day, but lacking in breeze. I have the morning and most of the afternoon
to do nothing but wait till the car is ready, so I will remain working here at
the library. And I will write!
Downstairs
in the Lion Yard, a fellow is playing the violin, somewhat madly, having just
finished playing "The Four Seasons."
What a nice touch, to hear the music in the background, muffled through
the glass and the books and the many people with whom I share the library.
I
was thinking on the way out this morning about my selfishness and perhaps now
is a good time to explore it. What I
mean is this: yesterday I spent the day in London, content to wander aimlessly
about, shopping, or as is more often the case with me, buying. I have done it in the past; it is what I
might call "cold comfort," a way to pleasantly pass the time, feeling
that I am accomplishing something by feeling I am attending to a need. In fact it is not a need, but more of a
feeling that it would be nice to get x or y, that my life would be more
meaningful or I would be more productive or more efficient C something like
that.
The
truth is that I seldom need what I buy.
I already have enough paper and pens to write several novels and more
books than I can read in a lifetime. I
have more clothes than I can possibly wear.
I keep buying clothes here and I have boxes of clothes at home that I do
not know what to do with.
The
interesting thing is that I spend a lot of time praying and thinking about
others; though usually in a global sense, e.g., the sick, the poor, the
suffering. Though I do not, indeed
cannot, think very well of individual cases of suffering or need, I do believe
I feel strongly for all in the world. By
the terms of my relationship with the problem: global, immense, universal,
there seems to be little I can do about things except pray.
This
reminds me a little of my relationship to books and records. The library of either looks immense,
formidable, uninteresting, even boring, but if I take out a specific thing, I
find myself quite taken up with the individual work. By the same token I see humanity as immense,
indistinguishable, yet find I could spend the rest of my life listening to the
stories one person had to tell. How does
this all fit together?
As
I grew up I had problems with relationships, in standing my own ground, and
being something more than a follower. I
was unable to comfortably, nicely and assertively set out my own personality,
almost as if I became clay in my companion's hands without an ability to think
for myself. Was I trying to be
nice? Was I a coward? Was I so enhanced by novelty, by a new thing
that I lost contact with my own self?
It
is as if my childhood relationships brought out the worst in me. As if I were better off alone, because that
way I would not be tempted to follow a path I had no interest in walking down,
though, at times, that path appeared attractive.
I
can see that by writing I have found a self centered approach to life which has
apparent legitimacy. I don't think I
chose to write to be self centered, I think it was the other way around,
namely, that as one whose outlook was self centered, writing seemed a natural
progression. Unfortunately writing which
remains self centered has little appeal to others and not much marketability.
Some
years ago I remember looking in on a sleeping infant Robert with tears in my
eyes, wanting to protect him, to keep that child within the circle of my love
and protection, and at the same time realizing that I could not ever control
him. I had to give freely without
knowing what would happen. I think that
realization has made me feel better about the children, loving them no matter
what, trying to fortify them, educate them, rather than protect them.
On
a less elaborate plane, buying things is a way of putting off what I really
need to do, which is to write C something that is not always easy. I put off thinking I will get around to the
harder work, and then one thing leads to another, etc. etc. and before long the
day is shot.
When
I wrote my book, back in 1989-90, what kept me going was an interest in my main
character, myself. I genuinely wanted to
know what happened to him: what was missing, what was the secret? The few stories I have started had this kind
of idea to them, but I have had no real interest in my character-- there is no
mystery to him, he can be or do whatever I wish. I do not find myself on a journey similar to
that of my character. This, perhaps, is
what I need to work on, developing a character with whom I can empathize and
speculate.
To
change the subject completely: as I read about English football (soccer) teams
competing in Poland and Turkey, and in light of all the talk in the paper about
whether and how Britain will integrate itself into a federal Europe, it is easy
to see how geography ties Britain into Europe.
At the same time, I see how, in our (American) relationship to Britain,
language and literature (and, as a result, law) unite Britain to our own very
different culture. In the midst of it
all, astride two very different worlds is Britain.
Feel
pressure to work on a story or something in time to show my parents (if only to
answer, what have you been doing?). It's
not a bad pressure, probably good.
Friday
13 November. 8 a.m. Clear, some clouds. You'd think this was a nation of professional
counterfeiters the way sales clerks at the till (cash register) check for fake
£10 or £20 notes (holding them up to the lights to look for the band of metal).
His
finger fondled the rosary beads,
Caressing
their hard, smooth, round surfaces,The motion of rubbing his fingers back and forth
Eased each prayer into a smooth, steady rhythm,
An unbroken litany of petitions
For this life with an eye to the after.
How oh how can such precious feelings be prayerful?
I have finally figured out that telephones here sound like chirping crickets. Two quick, startling chirps, then long ones.
Why
do I keep thinking of my father's writer friend, Myles Connolly? It seems strange to me, since I didn't really
know him that well. He was more of a
symbol, a guy who went to mass every day.
I'm not even sure I know what he did until after he died.
My
favorite paintings or lithographs usually leave an opening for a story: the
girl walking down the railroad tracks with her back to us, the table looking
out the window, a door, always possibilities.
Worked on idea of novel of place. Hailed at 3:50. Robert babysat in the evening and Cathy and I went to see the McCapra Quartet at Pembroke College for Mozart Festival. Beautiful, old, enchanting college.
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