Thursday, December 2, 1982
I read Moby Dick in Stu’s room until seven in the morning while he and Gareth worked and Shelley struggled to stay awake. I got up at about half-two: outside, the grey twilight cast its murk over everything. There's a detectable (and deflating) end-of-term mood around now. I think most people are still asleep on this corridor, which the man from Accommodations said is the corridor with the bad reputation.
I finished Sylvia Plath and it was really good. More work beckons. . . . I was going to stop in and see my Personal Tutor today, but I hung around his office door indecisively and instead came back to write my essays.
“It’s all go in Wollstonecraft Hall.” Rowan chucked water and lemons all over Russ after he’d called her a “fucking whore.” Cold silence from we bystanders as Russ leaped at her.
I'm determined to make next term so much better: to read books, to go to events, to just get up off my arse and live. God, how many times have I said this. Perhaps I’ll have to see the Dean this term for it really has been a disaster for me, I have to admit.
I feel no happier than when I came here, and in fact feel even more confined and vague about my future plans and aspirations.