I was up at eleven and passed five hours deep in conversation with Stu and Shelley. We talked about poetry. Stu argued that “all poetry is crap and could be better expressed in prose . . . Keats is a joke,” etc. He refused to concede defeat even though he'd based his entire argument on his O- and A-level study of Keats and Shakespeare.
Later we were joined by Rowan and, briefly, Penny and Barry. The conversation ranged onto sexism eventually and then, finally, nihilism, pessimism and cynicism. Barry left to go up to an RCP march in London, Penny to Watermouth with Shawn, and so just Shelley, Stu, Rowan I remained.
To begin with, our conversation was abstract and philosophical but we soon ventured into more personal areas. I reiterated everything I’ve written here in the past few months about Wilson’s “act of will” and my own inner confusion and failure to see ‘destiny’ writ inside, and also my dissatisfaction with the mundane life here. Of course I ended up sounding quite the hopeless pessimist, as though my path is more rocky and dark than that of everyone else.
Susie and Lindsey have just now gone off to see a house in New Lycroft that they hope to get for next October. I’ve been out every night this week so far and I’ve got through £35 already.
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