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Nothing is real except the present, and already I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
Somewhere, in his room, Emile lies, about to sleep, listening to the rain. God only knows what he’s thinking.
God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? of self-worship and self-loathing? of glory and disgust?
I have too much conscience injected in me to break customs without disastrous effects; I can only lean enviously against the boundary and hate, hate, hate the boys who can dispel sexual hunger freely, without misgiving, and be whole, while I drag out from date to date in soggy desire, always unfulfilled. The whole thing sickens me.
Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
If they substituted the word “lust” for “love” in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
Homesick is the name they give to that sick feeling which dominates me now.
