I get tired of his obscenities, of his world of “shit, cunt, prick, bastard, crotch, bitch,” but I suppose it is the way most people talk and live. A symphonic concert today, and reading the poetry and music of Proust, confirmed my mood of detachment. Again and again I have entered realism, and found it arid, limited. Again and again I return to poetry. I write to June. I try to imagine her life now. But poetry took me away from life, and so I will have to live in Henry’s world.
