That sentence jumped into my head two nights ago after I wrote the post about not being as good a writer as I used to think I was. And still there isn’t much to write about, although I suppose I could mention a couple of things in passing:
I read two reports this morning which left a strong feeling
that I no longer wish to be a member of the human species. The first pushed my
depression to an even deeper state, and the second opened the tap for a few
minutes. It’s just that the dark magma which lies at the base of the human
psyche, and which threatens to erupt only too readily and too often, is not to
my taste. Reclusiveness seems to be the only way forward.
I discovered yesterday that John Fowles (author of The French Lieutenant’s Woman among other works) and I have certain notable character traits in common. If only I had an Elena van Lieshout to keep me company as winter approaches. Maybe I would if I’d begun to write earlier in life and taken it more seriously, but who knows where the road not travelled would have led?
Talking of winter, my house has now developed its characteristic winter chill. It’s probably no coincidence that my angina has also become more uncomfortable. The taking of walks around the Shire is now just another chore.
I wonder how long it will be before I think of something else to give me an excuse to exercise my fingers at the keyboard.
(I don’t much like being as self-indulgent as this, but I haven’t much else to do during the long, dark evenings. The priestess said to me last night: ‘I know we’re worlds apart at the moment.’ She was right.)
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