June 21, 1937: When I see my father now, so gentle, so loving, I marvel at the novel I wrote and begin to think I am insane, that the way I crucified him was undeserved, that the monster I created was an invention, that the deformation was in me. I doubt all I saw, felt. The truth is in the diary. Outside it is insanity. Father is talking about the marvels of the microscope, about the scorpion he saw, the minerals, the gold dust, and I ask myself: was it a nightmare?
