whose knowledge of the early recordings of Connie Francis was practically flawless.
By now it was darker in the low-arched room than it was outside. “They never have my size,” he said breathlessly, “and I refuse to tell them it’s for a friend.” Frustration had been puckering his spirit. As the evening wore on I began to suspect that I was in the presence of a desperate man. Her mean, hunted look was driving me insane. His waking hours were spent in a prison of rituals and superstitions, his “mania,” as he called it. I don’t know how he made his decisions in those days. We believe in ourselves, as we do not believe in others.
An hour goes so slowly when someone is talking.
The rest of the day was spent devouring a book by Havelock Ellis.
That night, I wrestled with myself for hours and hours.
39.
I am teaching myself perfect freedom. So far, so good. More or less meaningless. I spent twenty-four hours in reflections, all of which ended by convincing me of my mistakes and making me despise myself. I didn’t understand a thing. Is this the so-called “blue hour”? I was so depressed that, unable to talk about my torment with anyone, I continuously brooded. Played the piano. “You can either resent the way life is ordained, or be intrigued by it,” wrote the critic Denis Donoghue. I remembered that the Hindus—or was it the Buddhists?—taught that a man should lead an ordinary life as a merchant and a father but that as old age approached he should become a monk and meditate and fast and give up the world and even his family and sex. You had your period of civic business, then you withdrew to discover what life was really about and to begin the long process of preparing for death.
I ruminated for perhaps six seconds on the words “get used to” and felt a kind of very slight melancholy that can be expressed only by the image of a pile of sand or rubbish.
Obediently the body levers itself out of bed—wincing from twinges in the arthritic thumbs and the left knee, mildly nauseated by the pylorous in a state of spasm—and shambles naked into the bathroom, where its bladder is emptied and it is weighed: still a bit over 150 pounds, in spite of all that toiling at the gym!
I owe my salvation only to chance.
That night there was a snowfall. White streets, white roofs, all sounds softened. As I walked up the rue de la Chausée- d’Antin, swimming on waves of sadness and grief and thinking about death, I raised my head and saw a huge stone angel, dark as night, looming up at the end of the street.
Yes, I am dreaming aloud. ‘Tis very strange.
Homosexuality does not stem from any dirty little secret. Nothing is abnormal about it except its price. Yes, but what is it? To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? It is when I am masculine that I want to make love to a man. Repression is a cat without a smile in the heterosexual streets, and a smile without a cat in homosexual minds. One ages quickly enough without such complications. There is a proportion of humans, oscillating between fifty and a hundred percent, that carries the desire for the same sex.
This morning, more snow, and lieder broadcast on the radio.
Parenthood, it seems, makes you nervous for the rest of your life.
Across the sky, like a cornea filling with blood, came a fearful darkening.
40.
The inquest concluded that Roy had died of unknown causes, a verdict to which I added the words, in the deep and dark hours of the night.
41.
I got there at three, dressed in black. They were waiting for me, looking expensive; svelte and composed. The house was full of the silence of snow. I urinated, emitted gas.
David’s face assumed an expression of horror. “Put me to the test, I accept it!” cried David.
Does he think he’s in West Side Story or something? It was one of the traits that endeared him to me. “But, David, you must insist on a proper rehearsal.” He got drunk every day, I no longer knew what to
By now it was darker in the low-arched room than it was outside. “They never have my size,” he said breathlessly, “and I refuse to tell them it’s for a friend.” Frustration had been puckering his spirit. As the evening wore on I began to suspect that I was in the presence of a desperate man. Her mean, hunted look was driving me insane. His waking hours were spent in a prison of rituals and superstitions, his “mania,” as he called it. I don’t know how he made his decisions in those days. We believe in ourselves, as we do not believe in others.
An hour goes so slowly when someone is talking.
The rest of the day was spent devouring a book by Havelock Ellis.
That night, I wrestled with myself for hours and hours.
39.
I am teaching myself perfect freedom. So far, so good. More or less meaningless. I spent twenty-four hours in reflections, all of which ended by convincing me of my mistakes and making me despise myself. I didn’t understand a thing. Is this the so-called “blue hour”? I was so depressed that, unable to talk about my torment with anyone, I continuously brooded. Played the piano. “You can either resent the way life is ordained, or be intrigued by it,” wrote the critic Denis Donoghue. I remembered that the Hindus—or was it the Buddhists?—taught that a man should lead an ordinary life as a merchant and a father but that as old age approached he should become a monk and meditate and fast and give up the world and even his family and sex. You had your period of civic business, then you withdrew to discover what life was really about and to begin the long process of preparing for death.
I ruminated for perhaps six seconds on the words “get used to” and felt a kind of very slight melancholy that can be expressed only by the image of a pile of sand or rubbish.
Obediently the body levers itself out of bed—wincing from twinges in the arthritic thumbs and the left knee, mildly nauseated by the pylorous in a state of spasm—and shambles naked into the bathroom, where its bladder is emptied and it is weighed: still a bit over 150 pounds, in spite of all that toiling at the gym!
I owe my salvation only to chance.
That night there was a snowfall. White streets, white roofs, all sounds softened. As I walked up the rue de la Chausée- d’Antin, swimming on waves of sadness and grief and thinking about death, I raised my head and saw a huge stone angel, dark as night, looming up at the end of the street.
Yes, I am dreaming aloud. ‘Tis very strange.
Homosexuality does not stem from any dirty little secret. Nothing is abnormal about it except its price. Yes, but what is it? To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? It is when I am masculine that I want to make love to a man. Repression is a cat without a smile in the heterosexual streets, and a smile without a cat in homosexual minds. One ages quickly enough without such complications. There is a proportion of humans, oscillating between fifty and a hundred percent, that carries the desire for the same sex.
This morning, more snow, and lieder broadcast on the radio.
Parenthood, it seems, makes you nervous for the rest of your life.
Across the sky, like a cornea filling with blood, came a fearful darkening.
40.
The inquest concluded that Roy had died of unknown causes, a verdict to which I added the words, in the deep and dark hours of the night.
41.
I got there at three, dressed in black. They were waiting for me, looking expensive; svelte and composed. The house was full of the silence of snow. I urinated, emitted gas.
David’s face assumed an expression of horror. “Put me to the test, I accept it!” cried David.
Does he think he’s in West Side Story or something? It was one of the traits that endeared him to me. “But, David, you must insist on a proper rehearsal.” He got drunk every day, I no longer knew what to
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