Sept. 27, 1959
From malaise to malaise, from illness to illness; where am I going? Feeling of radical impotence above all. Born impoverished.
The Bad has the same title as the Good to be a creative force. Of the two, though, it is the more active. For too often the Good idles.
There was a time when I did not pass a single day without several hours of music or without reading a poem. Right now, prose holds first place for me. Such a diminution, such a downfall!
The only problem that captures my heart: that of the monster.
To neutralize the effects of Creation.
The least act poses for me the problem of all acts; life is converted for me in Life; that complicates the task of breathing up to the point of suffocation.
Fit of anger from morning to evening. I quarreled with shopkeepers, with everyone. After each outburst, a feeling of humiliation. Reactions from “odious” individuals, and, by way of consequence, self-disgust.
All people who sell something put me beside myself.
After a sleepless night, a cigarette has a funereal taste.
I am a write who doesn’t write. Feeling of falseness to my nights, to my “destiny”, of betraying it, of throwing away my hours.
Oppression. Certitude of being uncalled.
In my moments of “epilepsy”, I feel disagreeably close to Saint Paul. My affinities with violent one, with all those I detest. Who more than I ever resembled his enemies more?
Enthusiasts, violent ones are in general stunted, “deflated”. They live in perpetual combustion, at the expense of their bodies.
If I do not progress on a single plan, and if I produce nothing, it’s because I seek the unfindable, or, as it used to be said, the truth. Lacking the ability to obtain it, I hop up and down, I wait, I wait.
I am a frantic skeptic.
In the first centuries of the Christian Era, I would have been a Manichaean, more precisely a disciple of Marcion.
Pity: a depraved kindness.
I no longer know who defined himself: “I am the locus of my states.” This definition suits me integrally, and nearly exhausts my nature.