I will not care about the pain in it all. I think only of the book I will write. Oh, the book I write, the hardest, most terrible book. Instead of writing in the diary I rush and add four pages. Reporting our dialogue coldly, accurately. Noting coldly, coldly—everything. Not caring. I sit here and turn the radio on—jazz. Deep down I care—but I do not want to. I want to drown pity. I feel hard and full of cruelty. Immense cruelty. I want to telephone Father and let him hear the jazz and say to him: “Here I am—I have been living a few blocks away from you, with Henry. Under your nose. Under
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