Monday, September 6, 1982

The great pretender

I’ve given up on Thomas Wolfe; I got as far as page 143 but ran out of desire to read on. He didn’t capture my imagination or interest at all, so now I'm reading a life of John Clare, which I'm enjoying.

Dad registered as unemployed today but he said he's confident of getting a job before Christmas.

I went into Easterby and bought Lester Bowie’s The Great Pretender but I don't like it and might try exchange it. I don’t know, maybe I'm in a weird mood or something, but I just feel sickened off with everything.

University will be just like this.

In the evening I went to Elaine Buckley’s party at Harvey's and it turned into the expected foul occasion. I only went to be sociable as it was my last chance to see everyone before I go away, but there were too many bad memories from last Christmas, too many horrible people, too much boredom. I got slightly woozy, as did Lee who was there fresh from his 500+ mile bike trip. He behaved a bit out of character I thought, and shouted, screamed, sang, and danced about in front of everyone.

Grant was there too, but he was in a very very depressed state and most of the time he sat alone in a corner, scowling darkly, barely speaking and looking absolutely black. He said it was something to do with not being able to communicate with people. When he wasn’t sitting depressed he was wandering about with a green shoulder bag which contained a book on myths, ghosts and superstitions. Lee and I felt sorry for him and hated the whole situation: I hate what I turn into, hate the return of all those so-familiar clouding doubts and apprehensions over nothing at all.

I can’t help myself.

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