Thursday, July 22, 1982
I seem to spend my days dreaming up phrases and descriptions to put in this journal. I was left on my own while Mum and Dad drove Nanna P. around her Currackdale honeymoon haunts of 1929.
I like Rimbaud's Franco-Prussian war inspired poems. Rimbaud met a depressing end: “In the long run our life is a horror, an endless horror! What are we alive for?” and, as he lies slowly dying, minus his right leg: “What happened to my trips across mountains, on horseback, walking across deserts, rivers and oceans? And now I’m a basket case! . . . Farewell marriage, farewell family, farewell future. My life is over, all I am now is a motionless stump.”