I have a feeling I have reached a juncture full of consequences that can’t be anticipated but will later seem inevitable. Should I embrace a bohemian life as a temporary lark or resist it as a trap? I’m afraid of being sucked under as Wallace was (as I nearly was), but to live without any fun at all seems too extreme a precaution and also discouraging to the making of art. I want love but not a wife, not yet. I want drink but not dissolution. I want momentum but not to careen. I suppose what I want is some kind of equilibrium, but I suppose I want the thrill of tipping back and forth, too.
