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No, something occurred when I was eighteen to make this face happen. It must have been at night. I was afraid of myself, afraid of God.
Suddenly I see myself as another, as another would be seen, outside myself,
I had the luck to have a mother desperate with a despair so unalloyed that sometimes even life’s happiness, at its most poignant, couldn’t quite make her forget it.
when she finally gives up her ceaseless to-ing and fro-ing, that I see the madness clearly for the first time. I see my mother is clearly mad.
He calls me a whore, a slut, he says I’m his only love, and that’s what he ought to say, and what you do say when you just let things say themselves, when you let the body alone, to seek and find and take what it likes, and then everything is right, and nothing’s wasted, the waste is covered over and all is swept away in the torrent, in the force of desire.
I feel a sadness I expected and which comes only from myself. I say I’ve always been sad.
He often weeps because he can’t find the strength to love beyond fear. His heroism is me, his cravenness is his father’s money.
I am worn out with desire for Hélène Lagonelle.
what.?
Since my younger brother was dead, everything had to die after him. And through him. Death, a chain reaction of death, started with him, the child.
