Tuesday, February 21, 1984


I started my essay on the Federal Writer’s Project of the ‘thirties at midnight and finished at eleven this morning with eight-and-a-half sides written. I gave it to Stu to hand in. I broke off at three in the morning when Lee called round and we got in to the Westdorgan pub—Lee had broken the lock on the toilet window earlier and we got in by sliding up the sash window. It was raining heavily and the sounds of dripping water masked our surreptitious creepings, but the window must’ve been discovered because the toilet door was locked.

As the morning progressed I wilted and the words came without thought, every sentence a great effort. I came back to Jervis Terrace, walked into Watermouth to the bank, and felt completely at a loss. So I wandered through the streets, buttoned up against the rain.

Records to listen to—Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale, Ligerty, Varese, Boulez. At Watermouth library all people browsing among the few books available made me wonder about the uselessness of all book learning—perhaps it was my sleepless mood.

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