Sunday, March 20, 1983


The look of the world's a lie, a face made up
O'er graves and fiery depths, and nothing's true
But what is horrible. If man could see
The perils and diseases that he elbows
Each day he walks a mile, which catch at him,
Which fall behind and graze him as he passes,
Then would he know that life's a single pilgrim
Fighting unarmed among a thousand soldiers.

Beddoes, Death’s Jest Book

I’d promised Lee I’d meet him today in Easterby (he’s doing drawings of the dereliction up around Geoffrey Road), but I mooched lazily around inside instead, the breezy cheerfulness of the sun making me restless.

I chained myself lethargically to the back room, half heartedly flicking through a book on Mary Queen of Scots. Mum and Dad had gone out for a run into the Dales, and when they came back I got Dad’s “Don’t you think you ought to be doing work?” lecture. His occasional references to that ill-defined area he describes as “your studies” always irritate me. But really I should at least be reading something, as my conscience has started to prick.

Still no news from Andrew. He was expected this weekend but no word yet. He scarcely ever communicates. Robert thinks if Andrew does go to Denmark to work and live that that we’ll hardly hear anything from him from one year to the next. “He goes his own way.”

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