I struggled with my supplementary task until ten in the evening. I’m making progress, but only after considerable effort.
She arrived on Saturday. I met her at the Central Station. She had bought a red hat inspired by me. I hugged her but did not kiss her. A kiss transmits infection. She complained about not being allowed to kiss me. Besides, it wasn't so easy to kiss when we were both wearing hats!!!
Once at her place, we climbed into bed and began cuddling.
I’m not sure about her morals. I don't want to share her with anyone if she’s going to be mine. For the moment, I don't. But for how long?
She is a girl made for love. Am I enough? In the long run? Will she betray me? In her letter she wrote:
"You don't have to worry about me cheating on you, because I probably won't be going out at night... Actually, I don't feel the need. I still get a tingle when I remember our lovemaking."
It’s the first line that worries me, although I understand that it is self-deprecating. But no smoke without fire...
Last night I was at her place. One of her former lovers called. She didn't mention that she had a visitor, and when I had a coughing fit (which I held back as best I could) she signed to me not to reveal my presence. Am I secret?
I was reading John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist, and had no intention of listening to the conversation, but then I hear that he wants to see her on Wednesday. She doesn't reply that she's going to the movies with me then, but says she probably has to work late!!! She keeps many doors open. That was also her response when I let her know my jealousy.
"You have to understand. We've only been together two weeks, and maybe it'll be over in a week."
As usual, her English accent made the words smooth and tantalizing despite the harsh content. She is very realistic, very careful and practical. She loves the small life. She sees the big life as the man's world. Her views on politics are shaped by her father, who I understand is a middle-class conservative. Her alienation from newspapers and politics is a stand against her father and for her mother. She has been hardened in a harsh environment.
I wonder if eroticism is a way for her to escape real emotional commitment. She talks about marriage and children in a way that at first made me think she was marriage-minded (she's 30!) but now I wonder if it's the other way around. She fears the prison of marriage.
Five years ago, she hoped to study at a school for interpreters and translators. It was her dream of the big break, a job that would take her out into the world. That dream was shattered when she didn't get in. Disappointed, she took a job as an au pair in Sweden where she began a new life. Now she has been in Sweden for six years and has had several men. Not bad guys, but normal and nice guys. She wants to be loved and to give love. And love she got. Some even wanted to get married, but she did not.
Uncertainty can be seen in her face if you look closely. She is afraid of her fate. The world is evil and hard to understand.
However, she has an excellent command of her personal and erotic relationships. And she cherishes her territory. By territory I mean her body and her dwelling. At the beginning of the fall, she got a small one-room apartment from the Stockholm Housing Agency. It was newly renovated and is now dominated by a large double bed with white tubular steel frames. Her white bookcase is full of books, mostly novels in English. Balzac, Colette, D.H. Lawrence, Tolstoy, popular novels, books on astrology and plant care, and Jane Fonda's workout book. The bookshelf also contains lots of cassette tapes — mostly English pop. There's also some wicker furniture in the room. Life happens in bed (whether reading, talking, or making love) and in the kitchen.
She has started to criticize me. I've been told off for watering a small palm tree to death, removing the flowers from the wrong cactus, opening the fridge door too many times, dragging gravel into the hallway, taking the vacuum cleaner hose off incorrectly so that she can't put it back on, etc. She emphasizes that it is her home, and that I have to adapt. And she's right, but hospitality requires a certain generosity, an indulgence. I think she is a bit too aggressive when she criticizes me.
However, she thinks it's better that she tells me directly instead of walking around being annoyed in silence. I respect that argument, even if I have a hard time getting used to it. I also realize that her meticulousness and demand for order is perfectly logical. She is a lost bird. Her nest is her fixed point in life. My home is my castle, as they say in England.
Penny is similar to Terry in many ways. She was also a loving person and preferred the small world. She also surrounded herself with carefully chosen details. Little things that marked her territory. Here is mine.
Is that what she wants to say with her criticism? I am here.
Then it's a big deal.
Then I made a big mistake in killing her palm tree.
Then she is about to leave me. What should I do about it?
Like Penny, I am afraid of the bond of marriage, but thirsty for love.
January 4, Wednesday, 01:05
I have been with my beloved.
I bought her a flaming sword plant as a penance for the palm tree I carelessly watered to death. On a small card I copied an erotic poem by Robert Burns. She opened the door slightly ajar as she was dressed in her nightgown. She was very pleased with the flower.
We sat down in her bed, had a whiskey, and she asked me to show her what to read in today’s paper. She has never had a morning paper, nor does she have a TV (things that was her father's domain.) A few weeks ago, I responded to an advertising offer on her behalf. Now she gets the paper for all of January at 10 kr only.
She had made an effort to read the paper. That moved me. From the very first day we were together, she said that she would have to learn about politics to keep up with me when I talk. Now she really did it. What a proof of love!
We went through the Monday and Tuesday papers. I checked the layout and editing and gave my opinion on the content. She listened and told me what interested her. Then we talked and cuddled until half past ten.
We made love. We talked about eroticism and love. We discussed her orgasm. She has been so keen to get good at pleasuring the guys that she has forgotten herself a bit.
There was nothing left of yesterday's doubts. She revealed that she had thought of breaking up because of the flowers. Not for this particular palm tree, but for what lay behind it. But then she had thought that I didn't mean any harm and that she had to be patient.
On the way to Penny, I found a passage in John Gardner's book that lifted me high, high. He writes in the chapter "The Writers Nature" about the intelligence a novelist needs. It is different from that of the mathematician and the physicist.
"It consists of several qualities that, in most normal people, are signs of either immaturity or rudeness: quick-wittedness (a tendency to make irrelevant connections); being obstinate and having a tendency to inertia (a refusal to accept what all sane people know to be true); childishness (a conspicuous lack of mental focus and a serious purpose in life, a fondness for daydreaming and telling pointless lies, disrespect, mischievousness, and an unseemly tendency to cry over nothing);..."
(John Gardner, On Becoming a Novelist, p 34)
So my weaknesses can be a strength. Yet I fear taking the plunge. In the book, Gardner points out that writing is an all-or-nothing profession. A failed ambition in an ordinary profession just means a lower position. Not so for a writer. Gardner tells me that I have the character of a writer, but can I also write novels? It is not an impossible task, but I need time to concentrate.
"Nothing is more damaging to a real writer's sense of security than a time of bad criticism, and this is unfortunately true in one way or another of almost every era." (p 36)
I thought about Dad, about the critical discussion of his art that he, like most other artists, received so little of. This was one of the reasons why he enjoyed working here so much. Among all the artists, there was an opportunity to talk about art, to discuss and feel respected.
"Once you realize that the writer should be able to advocate for all kinds of human beings, to see through their eyes, to feel for their nerves, to accept their stupidest fixed opinions as self-evident (to them), then you simply have to start doing it and do it over and over again — carefully rereading, rethinking, revising — then you get good at it." (p 31)
"Good writers can 'tell' everything in their fiction except the emotions of the characters." (p 31)
"...the characters' emotions must be demonstrated..." (p 33)
January 7, Saturday
We made love, we slept, and we read. In the morning she served fried eggs, sausages, and toast with marmalade. In the evening she gave me dinner.... and more criticism. She interrupted me in the middle of an exposition on Gardner's view of the novel versus the distancing effects of Myrdal and Brecht and told me that I wasn't listening to her. At first, I was sad, but then I listened, and when I finished listening, I realized that in my egocentricity I had again forgotten her. She is intelligent and wise, and strong in spite of her brittleness. She fights with me — which means that she cares for me.
*
She has made me so happy, but also makes me feel inadequate. What security can I give her? Am I prepared to offer her my heart? Without reservation?
"...he wants to be both independent and involved — an impossibility." (p 53-54)
January 8, Sunday
We woke up but didn't make love because we wanted to leave early for the "Myths" exhibition at the National Museum. We wandered around the museum for almost four hours, and she devoured everything with great interest. For me, it was a testament to her intelligence and thirst for knowledge.
*
After the exhibition, we had roast beef and potato salad at her place. I kissed her and we began making love. She lay on top of me while I had entered her from behind. She massaged herself but found it hard to let go at the crucial moment. It was as if she had built a fence around her orgasm, and over it she would not let anyone but herself go.
January 9, Monday
I submitted my supplementary task to Professor Sivertson.
"It was exactly what I wanted," he said when we later spoke on the phone.
"That's good to hear," I said.
"Then I stand by my part of the agreement and give you the highest mark for the paper."
I called Penny. I called mom. They were happy, very happy.
*
Jan Myrdal (referring to Scott, Balzac, and pointing to Brecht):
"...he breaks the illusion by constantly pulling the reader out of the action and emphasizing that the event he describes is a past event that cannot be changed regardless of the reader's feelings. (...) In this book Balzac speaks to the reader's reason (...) The illusion has been broken and the event can continue."
(Afterword to Katarina av Medici, p 406–407)
I understand that Myrdal cannot stand André Glucksmann. Personally, I like both Glucksmann and Gardner.
"What matters in the end is not the author's philosophy (which will in any case reveal itself), but the fate of the characters." (Gardner, p 43)
"If the writer understands that stories are first and foremost stories and that the best stories start a lively and continuous dream, he can hardly fail to take an interest in technology because it is above all bad technology that interrupts the flow of the dream and hinders its development." (p 45)
In yesterday's Expressen, Sven Delblanc wrote a few wise things about the puritanical contempt for entertainment. He cleverly mobilized a Brecht quote about the intrinsic value of entertainment.
January 10
I had a nightmare last night. Really scary. Science fiction.
Earth was invaded. First a big bomb went off. I crawled into a cylindrical hole in the ground and pulled the lid over. I barely escaped. I was afraid of the shock wave. Then Per came and tried to seek shelter.
"There is no room left!" I replied.
He said something resigned and walked away.
I betrayed my brother and only thought about saving myself. Eventually, I climbed out of my hole. We were a few people wandering around defenseless. Suddenly we discovered a dead person on a spit over a campfire! We saw several such traces of the invaders. Cannibals from space. No weapons bit them. They just helped themselves to us humans. There was nothing we could do!
*
Mom told me that Dad saw Paul Bjerre to undergo psychoanalysis in the 1940s (actually, it was psychosynthesis, a method developed by Bjerre). He was torn between his work as a hairdresser and his art studies, causing him to withdraw and become introverted. Bjerre treated him with hypnosis, allowing him to rediscover the world. One day he went down to Kungsträdgården, and for the first time in a long time he saw children playing. According to Bjerre, Dad was strongly attached to his mother, and had told him about dreams where he hit his mother across the face during hypnosis. It was an attempt at liberation.
January 11, Wednesday
I picked her up after work since she wanted to take me out for dinner. We went to a cozy little restaurant on Lästmakargatan, and after dessert we got into a discussion about love and fidelity.
"I think you have to be faithful in a committed relationship. How else can you have full confidence in each other?"
"That's true, but sometimes I miss my freedom," she said in a monotone tone making me wonder if she in the long run will be able to cope with a man as demanding as I.
"I want to deprive the woman I call mine of her freedom, while giving up my freedom to love other women. I don’t believe love can survive lies and falsehood," I said.
"You are absolutely right," she said after pausing for a moment.
January 13, Friday
I was thinking last night about death and honor.
"One could think that people in this time did not know that the only certainty in our lives is that we will die."
(Jan Myrdal, Fib/K No 1/84)
But just as certain as that we will die is that we are alive and that we are alive now.
"...man is a political animal. Or in other words, it is as a political — social — animal that takes the step to become a human being." (ibid.)
We live in the collective, in society, but this is for better or worse. Cooperation is not an end in itself, it should not be pursued for the sake of some abstract principle (cf. Mao's perverted collectivism). The group is there to help and protect individuals. That is its legitimacy, nothing else.
January 14, Saturday
"You must sleep at home tonight," she said as she gave me a hug.
She was annoyed that I woke her up at nine the last time I visited.
January 15, Sunday.
You know so well that I love you
You said on the phone that it was nice,
not to see me today, but that’s not
how the one who loves speaks
I showered you with kisses, caresses, and honest speech.
I showered you with love, care, and sweet words.
I played all my best cards at once.
And you swallowed my love like a cat her milk.
Then walked away satisfied from the empty cup.
*
"-Love, my dear lady, is consciousness of possession in its greatest intensity. Jealousy is but the fear of losing what one possesses.
-Possesses! Disgusting!
-Mutually possesses, since each possesses the other."
(August Strindberg, The Confession of A Fool, 1913, translated by Schleussner)
Almost instinctively, I throw myself into a The Confession of A Fool, as if to inoculate myself. I have to build up the strength I need in case it cracks. She reproaches me for being jealous, having just told me that she is invited to dinner at Arne's on Tuesday and at her former partner, Klasse — who still loves her! — on Wednesday. She says that my desire to possess her could break our relationship.
I vacillate, driven on the defensive.
"I told her that she must choose between him and me. But she carefully refrained from doing so, for her object was to have me, him, and as many more as she could get, kneeling at her feet and adoring her." (ibid.)
I grab brother August's hand.
"I had made up my mind to return to work, determined to tear this love out of my heart, but I soon found that I had reckoned without forces much stronger than myself." (ibid.)
She was the one who set the pace in our relationship. She was the one who called me twice a day and bound me with sweet words. She was the one who wanted me to come over. Last Thursday, I had planned to spend the evening reading, but she called and begged me to come over. An hour ago, she said as an accusation that we had met "Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday." Today she went for a walk with Klasse and invited him to dinner.
"The more I vacillated and humored her whims, the fonder she seemed of me, the more she praised my wisdom, my amiability. She swayed and bewildered me, but as soon as I opposed her seriously, she turned her back on me and treated me with dislike, almost with rudeness." (ibid.)
The first week we were together, I was afraid that she was too eager for marriage and felt I had to slow down. Now she is pouring cold water on me.
"I appreciated her candid ways, her gaiety, her sincerity, her motherly tenderness." (ibid.)
"Don't imagine that I could ever debase myself and be content to share you with a third, never, never!" (ibid.)
The woman in The Confession of A fool did not have access to birth control pills.
*
We did it again despite lingering questions and frustrations.
"I loved her so much that I irritated her, and more than once she plainly showed me that my passionate temperament bored her. But everything was forgotten and forgiven at those rare moments when she caressed me, ..." (ibid.)
"...and a distressed heart is not soothed by deceitful kisses." (ibid.)
It's like my love was shattered today, and I no longer believe in us. Maybe I hope so but believe — no! If I manage to take it easy, she may begin to worry, and apply all her talent and intelligence to make me crazy about her again. She had said she had no time to see me tomorrow, but if I stay cold and calm when she calls, she will change her plans and ask me to come over. She will want me close to her, so as not to lose her power.
January 16, Monday
It was one in the morning, and I was falling asleep when the terrible truth suddenly hit me. So that's why she didn't want me to stay over that night. She has already betrayed me! The truth was as terrible as white in its logic. She had already planned at the beginning of the week to meet Klasse on Sunday and was just waiting for the right moment to let me know that she wanted to sleep alone on Sunday. Hence the accusation on Saturday morning that I had woken her up, which I didn't remember doing! The idea was that I would take it as a punishment, a fair punishment handed out by my "goddess" (Libra!) and now she is trying to make me believe that she is not making love with her ex-partner. She didn't say it explicitly, but that was the hidden message when she said he went home early to watch P.C. Jersild's movie on TV. (But what if they made love the first thing they did?!!!)
Jealousy isn't pretty, and I know that these are terrible accusations, but now they are there, and if I'm right, I'll be a fool if I keep playing the game, although, if I'm wrong it's a great injustice I'm doing. But the chain of evidence seems clear. On Saturday morning, my beloved suggests that we should not make love and sleep together after having been to a party.
*
She is a woman who lives in the moment, meticulously planning and regulating her life. Nothing is left to chance. So, it was not a coincidence. I don't care whether she made love to him or not that morning, because she had already deceived me with a lie. I feel betrayed, but I’m at the same time happy to have seen through her ruse. Can I make love to her again after this? No, it's over! Shit!
Monday evening
The day began with an emotional hangover. I listened to the morning news on radio, masturbated, mostly to mark my independence from her, did thirty push-ups, had coffee, and read the morning papers. The phone rang sometime after nine, but I didn't answer.
Had lunch. Walked downtown to QuickPhoto to drop off a roll of film. I then stayed at the University as I didn't want to be home in case she called. Stopped by the Foreign Policy Institute where I read China Quarterly. When I finally got home, I was afraid she would call, so I went to the Public Library at Medborgarhuset where I borrowed books by T.S. Eliot, William Carlos Williams, and Michel Butor. I called up Björn when I got home to block the line and discuss the matter with him. We talked for at least an hour. He urged me to calm down but thought her behavior — as I described it — was strange. I told him that I was going to break up with her, but that I first wanted to give her a chance to explain herself.
She called fifteen minutes after I hung up the phone.
"You sound weird, cold," she said.
"Yes, but it's not something I want to discuss over the phone," I replied.
"Come on, Johan. Have I been mean to you? Are you angry with me?"
"I don't know what to believe, but it seems to me that the reason you wanted to sleep alone on Saturday night was that you already planned to meet Klasse on Sunday," I said.
'No, but Johan, then I would have cheated on you. It was a pure coincidence. I had called Arne, but he wasn't home, and then I realized that I had promised to call Klasse."
Her version was watertight, and now I was left with no proof. So, she was innocent! And more importantly, she cared about me, and said that if I tried to break off with her, she wouldn't accept it, but would fight for me.
"Hugs and kisses," she said when we left, and now I love her even more.
"...only the one who believes himself loved can be jealous..." (Barthes p 187)
"...I who love am undesirable and are counted among the moments of initiation; consigned to the category of bores: the ones who bear down to hard, who irritate, encroach, complicate, demand, intimidate (or more simply: those who speak)..." (Barthes p 166)
"How exactly do we go from falling in love to love itself? By putting ourselves, our relationship, and the person we love to the test, that's how. (...) Some of these tests are crucial. Passing them means that our experience of falling in love has 'set', and that it has become the compact cluster of daily certainties that we term 'mature, stable love.'"
(Alberoni, Falling in Love and Loving, p 136)
"In the wings, however, lurks our unwillingness to yield to the existential risk of putting ourselves completely in another person's hands. It constitutes our resistance to love, which co-exist alongside our falling in love. If we continue to abandon ourselves completely, it's only because we allow ourselves to think that this time is the last time. By thinking that, we create a separation however brief between ourselves and the person we love. In this lies the 'truth test': we are pulling away merely to test ourselves, to see if after a separation occurs we notice that our desire returns and that we continue to be desperately in love; if so, we need another 'last time...and another and another." (p 138)
January 17
Attended Rudolf Fors' introductory seminar in his PhD course on the theory of economic systems. It’s stimulating to be part of a team effort, but economics feels increasingly alien.
January 23, Monday
Spent most of the evening studying Anthony Downs' book An Economic Theory of Democracy (1957).
January 25, Wednesday
Yesterday I read all morning and then went to Fors seminar which was a boost. He gave an exciting presentation. When we introduced ourselves, he highlighted my paper, and recommended it for reading. One of the newcomers to the course was Stefan Kvartz. He had been asked by the Bureau of Eastern Economics to assess my paper and said that he liked it.
*
Mom is snoring in the next room. I can still smell Penny. We made love. She took me to restaurant Annorlunda and gave me a poem in response to the one I had sent her the day before yesterday. She described how she walked around, waiting for me at Galerie Gummesson, and the joy she felt when finally arrived. This is the first time a girl has written me a poem.
January 28, Saturday
"Johan, I thought of you today. I'm in love with you," she said, giving me a lock of her hair.
*
My beloved
Let me land
in your world,
in your room,
in your womb
Like a pearl,
a red rose
an orchid
all in purple
is my beloved
I am with you
I am
only with you
*
I am in her hair
in that small lock
she gave me today
I hover over my friend
and she has a name
Full of love
I seek to move
her heart
The world is rocking
I'm coming,
soon I must,
always too soon,
return there
from where I came
You took me in,
made space for me
and I came for you,
in you, with you
January 29, Sunday
I gave her the poems on Saturday night. She had cooked dinner with both appetizer, and dessert. When we had finished eating, I gave her a massage all over her body, but she became sleepy, so it was a subdued lovemaking. In the morning we made love again. After I had come, she asked to be stroked, and then it happened! For the first time in our relationship, I managed to give her an orgasm. My arm was almost paralyzed afterwards, but it worked.
January 30, Monday
I called Sture Ljungberg about a temporary position as a writer for the business section of DN. We talked for a while and then I went up to the manager Kalle Ottendal who recognized me immediately and was friendly. He gave me the impression that I had a good chance of getting the job.
February 1, Wednesday
I took Penny to Café Opera to celebrate the temporary job that seemed to be within reach. We had turbot fillet, drank white wine, and had a good time. It had snowed when we came out, but it was relatively warm, so we had to walk in the sleet to the Old Town subway station, where we took the train to her place.
“If I get the job at DN, I was thinking of taking two weeks off in July. Would you like to go with me to France then," I asked as we walked to her place.
"I don't know. I had planned to go abroad in April, and I don't think I can afford to go again in July," she said.
"Well, yes, of course..."
"Do you think you could take your vacation in April instead?" she asked as she opened the door.
"I think so."
"Then we could go somewhere together. It would be really nice," she exclaimed.
We went in, and she changed while I sat down on her bed. She came over to me and soon we were kissing.
"Is it just because you are turned on that you kiss me like this," she asked.
"No, it's my feelings for you that make me kiss you like this, but it's true that kissing you turns me on."
"Sometimes I worry that you are so passionate."
"Don’t you think we will be together this summer?"
"I don't know. Maybe I want my freedom back."
Something stiffened in my stomach, and I fell silent.
"I have doubts about the future. I don't know if I dare to believe in it. Maybe there will be a war, and then I don't want to have children."
"But isn't the war an alibi to avoid risking your feelings?"
"I may not be as sure of my feelings as you are of yours."
"It's possible that I'm falling in love easily, but I'm would not propose easily. I'm careful, I want to be able to stand for what I do. I don't want to have children when I'm unemployed. Nor can I propose to you and ask your father for your hand if I don't have any solid ground to stand on."
*
I called her and at first everything was fine, but then it came.
"I'm going to the movies tomorrow night."
"...really?"
(Silence)
"With Klasse."
(Silence)
"Will you be sad?"
"You know what I'm like," I replied as my stomach filled up with bile.
"Johan, you are pushing me so hard. It's as if I have no freedom left. There's no reason for you to feel threatened because I go to the movies with an old friend," she said.
"But you know, and I know that he is interested in you. How can I see him as anything other than a rival?"
"There's probably something wrong with me because you're completely normal, but I don't want to change my ways since I like my freedom. And I've thought about going out and dancing by myself for fun."
"Okay, you do as you please."
"Don't get me wrong. We have a great time together, and I want us to be together," she said.
"It's up to you."
*
Am I the one who is crazy? Is there any reasonable reason why I shouldn't be hurt when the girl who claims to be in love with me wants to go to the movies with her ex who still loves her?!
Perhaps I must break this bond before it kills me! She knows so well what I think, that I demand complete fidelity. Yet she does this to me. She does not love me, and she has never said so. She holds me dear, really likes me, but does not yet want to use her strongest expression: I love you. Do I love her? After this second hit — no!
Is love impossible?
(new page in the diary)
A new page. A new chapter.
A man of thirty something plunges to Earth after spending time on cloud nine. Tomorrow night is two months to the day since we met. After we made love that night, she told me that I probably thought she was loose. I didn't, but now I wonder if she was just playing innocent, if I can trust anything she says. Maybe she's lying when she says it's wonderful to make love to me. Oh God, what a morass! Who can be trusted? Klasse had said that he would not have agreed to her meeting a guy who was interested in her. Yet she does this — with him! What does she want me to think? And what does she want him to think about me?
“The second possible outcome is much messier. The other person does not fall in love, and yet this doesn’t rule out his or her thinking that he or she has. The demonstration that this is not true lies in the fact that he or she simply vicariously participates in the other’s authentic experience. Passively he or she accepts and participates in the use the other makes of the symbolic, but it is a game. He or she hasn’t out-and-out refused the other’s love, of course. He or she might feel flattered by it.” (Alberoni, p 102)
“By way of analogy, then, we can say that in an unequal relationship, the person who is in love tends to create an imaginary, poetic universe, while the other (who is not truly in love and who makes nothing but practical, concrete requests) reproaches him of her for.” (Alberoni p 105)
“…the person in love in this lop-sided relationship is reproached for being unperceptive, selfish, and obscure, and for living in a dream world.” (Alberoni p 106)
“Let’s say that the woman I’ve fallen in love with loves cars and is fascinated by race-car drivers. (…) Now, however her evident attraction to one of them makes me feel worthless. Our love has been invaded by an external force, which is little by little wreaking havoc on our joint value system. (...) The experience of falling in love here, however, has become no longer mutual...“ (Alberoni p 155-156)
“Oftentimes we decide to ‘fight for’ X, to win his or her love back with our charm, love letters, poems, music, or utter devotion and self-sacrifice; we try everything, we’re desperate. Unfortunately we realize all too soon that X still doesn’t love us, and then (…) we raise the terrible renting sword to divide ourselves from him or her…” (Alberoni, p 159-160)
February 2, Thursday
"I may not go to the movies tonight, but there may be problems in the future," she said when she called me, implying that I am depriving her of her freedom, but I am not.
February 4, Saturday
She called me on Thursday morning to ask if I wanted to have lunch with her. I said yes and bought a red rose which I gave her when we met. She said she didn't deserve it, but I wanted to mark that it was our day. In a way, it was a declaration of war. I wanted to show her that I am prepared to fight for my love.
"I realized that you were right the other day and that your jealousy would have been completely justified if I had gone to the movies with Klasse."
"Thank you," I said.
We talked and kissed and later in the evening I showed her the poem I had written on Wednesday. She liked it. We were reconciled.
"You know, now that you've shown that you're willing to sacrifice the meeting with Klasse, it's okay if you see him. I just wanted you to think of me first."
I am thinking of proposing to her.
“But can it really take so little to reassure a person in love?” (Alberoni, p 171)
February 5, Sunday
She called and asked me to come over for dinner.
"I explained to Klasse that I can't see him because I'm with you. He was not happy at all, but I stood my ground," she said.
"I love you. When should I come over?"
"Now," she said. "Hurry up!"
We kissed passionately until I sank down exhausted at my lover's side.
"My feelings for you are getting stronger and stronger. Just so you know," she whispered in my ear.
When I caught my breath for a moment, I kissed her again. We resumed making love, but I had a headache from the tension, so we stopped, and she offered me coffee and a Fat Tuesday bun instead. We sat in bed, talked, and ate. We were totally reunited. I love her. I am passionate about her. She makes me so happy.
February 6, Monday
What a day. First Penny called and so far, so good. Then Monica called from DN and asked if I wanted to jump in at DN City. Could I start tomorrow? Of course I want to work, but not right now. I have a tight reading schedule, but how can I say no to a job, especially when I'm hoping to get the job at the business desk. I promised to pop in at two.
*
At noon, I met Stefan Kvartz. We talked about China over lunch at Cattelins Bistro. He thought I could get a job at the Bureau if I was interested.
*
Monica said that Karl Lennartsson had changed his mind and would after all not be taking his paternity leave, so they didn't need a replacement at the business desk. And when it came to work in the summer, she said that it all depends on Ottendal. I went up and talked to him, but he didn't sound as positive as the last time, when he said I could work there either in April or June. Now it was just a matter of submitting an application like anybody else.
February 8, Wednesday
My first day at the DN City went well. The working hours are from 10 to 6, but the boss, Torvald Stensson, left at 4, and a quarter later, Stig Bervald, who does most of the editing and manages the the reporters, left. At half past four I left.
February 11, Saturday
Tired. Satisfied. Having coffee. Sleepy.
February 12
I finished Anthony Downs' book and started on James M. Buchanan and Gordon Tulloch's The Calculus of Consent (1962).
*
Been with my angel and danced on the clouds.
*
She called me at work yesterday. I was eating, but there was a message on my desk when I came back. I immediately called her back and she sounded happy, and a little impish. She suggested that we make love first — before going to my place to watch Shogun on TV. I left at two when I was done with the work, which felt a bit weird since the we are supposed to work until six. Nevertheless, I was the last one to leave for the day.
We met, kissed, and went downtown to buy wine and meat. At my place we made love, and eventually had dinner. After the movie, I took her home and spent the night.
*
In the evening we watched Dead Zone. We snuggled and got cozy, but didn’t make love, just laid in bed massaging each other's souls until we fell asleep.
*
The eroticism was not as hot and intense this weekend, but on the other hand, I listened more than usual. Once I manage to forget myself, I find so much.
My love is growing, and she says she "likes me more and more." Sometimes we talk hypothetically about children and marriage. At one point she said that if I asked her now, she wouldn't answer yet. Sometimes it feels like there is only one more stanza to add to my serenade, but I still hold back.
I don't want to run amok, high on emotions, but who am I today? I want to see a light in my private tunnel (career choice!) before I strike, but I feel more and more strongly that it's her I want and I'm also afraid of holding oft too long. Anyway, we have decided to go to Greece over Easter.
February 13, Monday
Had lunch with Rudolf Fors. We talked a bit before the seminar on the Down's book. He told me not to worry, given the bright participants in the course.
"I haven't noticed any lack of confidence on your part," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
NAKED
Under your blanket
I rest naked
while you curl up
facing me
In your eyes
glimmer of joy
"I’m in love with you"
You said it,
and my ribs
was no more
and it was warm
Under your blanket
I rest naked
with my chest open
and my heart
defenseless
At once vulnerable
and completely calm
Captured by you
exerting all my power
feeling the pull
of the wave
that washes over me
February 14, Tuesday
Oh my God, I love that girl! There are no words for it. Still, I trudge on with my feeble language to prolong the presence of the past. She called me over a week ago to make sure I was available on this Tuesday evening. I wondered why but couldn't think of anything.
At half past six I arrived at her little lair, or love nest as she calls it. I had been to a seminar and got hold of the World Bank's new report on China, three thick volumes, so in one hand I had a loaded attaché case, and in the other the two volumes that didn't fit. Because I was so overloaded, I had neglected to buy roses, which I excused by saying that I had already sent her a letter with a poem, and an excerpt from The Song of Songs.
She was wearing a red blouse and her hair was particularly beautiful. I had barely crossed the threshold before she embraced and kissed me. She was preparing dinner and gave me a glass of whiskey to enjoy while I waited.
When everything was ready, she invited me to the table and turned off the lights, leaving only the lit candles. On the small kitchen table were Italian pasta in three different colors, a casserole with Bolognese sauce, plus crème fraiche, and an endive salad. On the table stood a bottle of red wine — "Valentine" of course. I opened the bottle and filled the glasses. She watched me to see if I understood anything, but I didn't, so she had to explain what Valentine's Day was. Full of admiration, I leaned over and kissed her.
"Penny, everything tastes fantastic. You must have spent a lot of time preparing it," I said.
"I enjoy cooking for my Johan since he really appreciates my efforts."
We ate and drank and then sat quietly looking at each other for a long time, but our romantic seance was soon interrupted by the whirring of the coffee maker. I poured the coffee, and whipped the cream for the dessert, which was a heart shaped Sachertorte that she had made the night before.
When our hunger was satisfied, it was time for lust. We went into the bedroom and kissed while undressing each other. It went fast and she wanted me in her almost immediately, but I teased her and focused on her breasts. My tongue danced around her stiffening warts, and when they got really hard, I dove in. She gasped for breath.
"I love you, Penny. You're lovely, you're wonderful," I whispered in her ear.
"You are wonderful too," she said.
It was Valentine's Day and a wonderful evening, but it was still Tuesday, and we both had colds, so I said goodnight to my dear and went home to sleep.
February 15, Wednesday
I have a bad cold and fever, but I am happy. I called her and we talked for a while. Her cold was better. I read her yesterday's passage from my diary which she liked. She had also received my letter with the poem, which she thought was the most beautiful so far. We talked about a few things, but mostly about love. She told me that this year is a Leap year.
February 17
"I love you," I said when we got inside the door after I had escorted her home and we were about to part for the night. I know I say it quite often these days, maybe a little too often. I don't want it to be casual, but I mean it, even when she's not wearing makeup. I have become deeply attached to her person.
"Don't you dream of making a mark in the sand, of immortalizing yourself?"
"No," she replied without hesitation.
It puzzled me. Does she not want to go to the afterlife? Does she just want to live?
"Isn’t that enough?" she said, adding that you can't just live for your own generation, but must also think about what you leave behind for the next generation.
*
She called in sick today since her cold was getting worse. She called me at half past nine. I went to her house at half past three in the afternoon. On the way I bought five pink tulips. She was very happy with them. We had rice pudding and she talked about Märta Tikkanen's book Manrape. She said it had given her pause for thought. It had made her think about the role of women. It was clear that she had given the book a lot of thought.
Then we made love.
Then we took a shower.
Then we went to my place, where I treated her with waffles, coffee, and ice cream.
February 20, Monday
We met on Östgötagatan and walked up to the cliff by Katarina Church. We stood for a long time in the sunny, but cold weather, and enjoyed the view. Saltsjön (the Salt Lake) lay clear blue, and we could count at least fifty white swans down by the Old Town. Boats from the archipelago, and ferries to and from Djurgården silently glided over the water.
Later, when we were shopping for food at Domus by Slussen, I saw her checking prices while I was packing. She wanted to make sure that the cashier did not enter the wrong amount.
Today I restrained myself and did not say once that I loved her, although she probably knew that anyway.
February 21
Last night I worked past two in the morning on my introduction to Anthony Downs' book An Economic Theory of Democracy. Today I worked 9.30-12.30 on the newspaper, had lunch before I went to the seminar that started at three. My preparations were clearly inadequate. I knew that, of course, but Fors had told me not to worry. Facing the seminar, I immediately felt I had too much floating around in my brain. I had no simple logical structure to line up, but only a basic structure. Intuitively, I understood Down's logical model of the political system, but as soon as I moved away from the basic structure, a lot of unpleasant complications appeared that grew and grew during the hour I talked. Eventually they seemed to fill the entire room, which thankfully only consisted of me, Fors and eight PhD students. Towards the end, Fors cut the presentation as it was obvious that I was stuck.
The discussion afterwards didn’t go well, but it was not all my fault. Some of the PhD students preferred to talk about how much they disliked models. They asked questions as if they wanted to burst the balloon I had inflated, and it burst when I was left with no answers to give. It was embarrassing to say the least, and I felt like a fool.
February 23, Thursday
Mom told me that she was thinking of taking a trip to Cotě d'Azur. She wanted to travel on her own to find herself. She also wanted to revive old memories.
*
Read a third of Anders Ehnmark's Arvskifte (settling the inheritance).
"The classic mistake of the left is to dream of the new way of governance. The dream has everywhere led to a nightmare. The modern error of radicalism, which Lenin did so much to nurture, is to believe that you have the political solution, a new system of popular government that allows the general will to be expressed, as opposed to bourgeois democracy, which allows only small groups to do so. The great Rousseauian speculation about such systems fails since they nowhere, after many attempts, have proved to be anything else than despotism. Incidentally, the despot is is already indicated in the texts, if you look closely, as a subject, a 'we' who decides what the will of the class or the people is."
(Ehnmark, p 74-75)
"The social goals of the left, justice and equality, require an extreme political pessimism, a Montesquieuian theory of the weakening the power, in order not to turn into its opposite, a new and worse class society." (p 75)
His reasoning is sympathetic, but he makes it a little too easy by simply dumping Rousseau and embracing Montesquieu. His criticism of liberals then becomes that they are inconsistent unless they are also anti-imperialists. In my opinion, he has a naïve view of the possibilities of democracy, and an overly optimistic view of the state. Kenneth Arrow already showed with his "impossibility theorem" that not even a perfect democracy can satisfy everyone. It does of course provide stronger feedback but does not abolish power itself. Strategic decisions on overall social action require a certain degree of Rousseau's volonté générale. Montesquieu was, after all, a conservative. In the US, it was the separation of powers that long blocked civil rights for the black population (Franz Neumann: The Democratic and Authoritarian State, New York, 1955).
February 25, Saturday
I sensed that something was going on when the phone rang. It was not Klasse, but Arne. She was cold and distant on the phone but said nothing about me. I went to the bathroom while she washed the dishes and took a shower afterwards. Then I put on my pajamas and got into bed. She came over too but was reserved. We talked about childhood memories for a while, but then she changed the subject, and said that she was not happy with the way I did the dishes on Wednesday. She went on to say that she didn't want to leave her apartment and her way of life. This was not an answer to a question, at least not from me. I felt a threat approaching.
"It worries me that you assume that it will be the two of us. You take it for granted, but I don't feel like I've arrived at the big love. I like you very much, and logically I should be happy, but that's not what my feelings tell me. I only say that because I want you to know how I feel."
Silence and heavy breathing.
"I want you to let me know when you feel sure that it won't be the two of us. Then we have to break up, because I don't want to be cheated. When I go into a relationship, I do it with an open heart, prepared to go as far as it takes. If you have a reservation that says it can't be us, then I want to know," I said.
She caressed me. I lay on my stomach and thought about going home. Her caresses were painfully tender, and at the same time restrained. She wanted to show warmth and compassion, but not to excite me. I controlled myself, put on my clothes and went home without bitterness. Grateful to my beloved for her honesty, but sad to be unloved.
What the hell should I do now?
I understand her. For me, she is fine as she is. She could be a mother and a wife. She could easily get a better job and more education in time, but what do I have to offer besides poems and tulips? I’m a big question mark. What security can I offer? I understand her, but the fact that I understand this doesn’t mean that I accept the fact that she doesn’t love me.
February 26, Sunday
I was with her last night. We had met at McDonalds near Fridhemsplan. She noticed my coldness, but I thought that since she had wanted to cool my feelings, she had no right to complain. I was no longer infatuated but felt proud and independent.
I lay in her bed reading while she made a tuna salad. As usual, she put a lot of effort into making the food tasty and beautiful to look at. In the crème fraîche there was a small bundle of sprouts.
Afterwards we crawled into bed. I kissed and massaged her naked body. She responded by caressing herself while I watched, whimpering of pleasure when she reached her climax. She was eager to have me, but I held back, teasing her, until I took the plunge. She moaned and scratched my shoulder blades with her nails. It was perfect, strong, and beautiful, far beyond routine. Was it the aggression that increased the pleasure?
February 27, Monday
We went through the travel brochures again and decided on Crete. Then she read my latest poem, which she liked a lot.
Hit
Your words hit,
penetrated like
high-velocity
ammunition
into.... no,
right through
my heart
The hole of
entrance
was small
and fine
I did not yell,
Didn’t jump
But I was
at once
annihilated
I was completely calm
when you took aim,
was almost naked
You didn’t want
to hurt
Only kill
*
She asked if it didn’t mean anything to me, that she didn't care about politics. I said no. I myself am no longer as interested in politics, or rather, my belief in the miraculous power of politics has diminished over time.
*
I wonder if she is not essentially a puritan. A social and economic puritanism, combined with a deep sensuality. And sensual was the end of our evening. Although we didn't plan to make love, we did. She seduced me and then touched my hair. And she found a couple of gray hairs. At first, I didn't believe it, but the mirror in the bathroom was unrelenting. I pulled out my first gray hair.
February 28, Tuesday
The job at DN has certain aspects of parody.
Paid working time: 40 hours per week.
Normal working hours: 30 hours.
Time actually working: 20 hours.
Time working effectively: 15 hours.
February 29, Wednesday
I was a lion and she a lioness. Later she told me that she never felt so appreciated as she did by me. What do I see in her? Is it her inner warmth and the way she receives me? There are more beautiful girls, but that doesn't matter so much. She is handsome, tall, and beauteous. I like the fact that she is slim, but not shapeless. I want a beautiful girl and she is beautiful, but also a delightful person, tender and sensual, wise, and intelligent. She devours with appetite the books and magazines I lend her. When we occasionally discuss politics, she is relatively open, but gets tired quickly when I get up to speed.
But maybe that's a sign of health!
March 1, Thursday
I have a hard time sleeping. Worried about not getting the substitute reporter position this summer. Maybe not even a job on the foreign desk.
Grey hair too.
I have stopped reading left-wing magazines, but I have not given up on the world. I care about humanity, but my political beliefs have cooled.
What to do about Beirut? Iran-Iraq? Afghanistan?
March 2, Friday
She was depressed when I called. She is also struggling to find a job she likes. It's sad to realize that the market demands different skills than the ones you have. She sounded so frail and fragile that I suggested that we go to the movies (even though I didn't have time!) When I got home, Mom said that Larry from Aftonbladet had called about a job. My God! What a great feeling. He called again around nine and sounded very nice, but it was primarily a text and layout editor they needed. We will meet on Monday.
March 4, Sunday
She told me that her mother thought it was good that I have a job. She thinks it’s irresponsible for a man of 30 to "study."
Sometimes I wonder how long my feelings will last. She wonders that too. Or rather, it worries her. Can she trust me? She needs someone to trust. Last Friday night we celebrated three months.
We had dinner at the restaurant Vita Bergen on Folkungagatan and then went to her place. The first time was good. The second time dragged on and became increasingly exhausting and frustrating. My mind wandered back and forth between fantasies about my girl and other girls. Yes, it felt a bit awkward to think about others while making love to her, but they were just fantasies. Eventually I could sense a second orgasm rolling in with a violent force. She said afterwards that she was afraid that I was in pain because it sounded like I was suffering, but I wasn't in pain. It just felt so good that it hurt, and I wanted to cry, but it didn't hurt any more than that the cry turned into a sigh and a sob.
I was so happy.
March 5, Monday
I went to Aftonbladet for a job interview. They want me as an editor for three months. 31 hours work week and 11,000 kr per month in salary. They needed an answer no later than Wednesday.
March 6, Tuesday
It was difficult to get started this morning since I was hungover, but I pulled myself together and went to the business desk to inquire about jobs. Ottendal was there, and he was joking and noisy as usual. Yes, I was in a good position, he said. There were 90 applicants for the two positions in his department, and I was well positioned, but he couldn't tell me more until Friday.
March 7, Wednesday
I talked to Ljungberg, who wanted to extend my temporary job, and I agreed to continue until Penny and I travel to Crete in April. In May the central news desk wants me, and in the summer, it could be an opening at the business desk. Ljungberg said that he had talked to Ottendal about me and had "spoken for the product."
My colleague Bervald was sick today. I worked alone and got a lot done. He said he would probably not come tomorrow, but I suspect that he will as he is afraid that it may look like one editor can do the entire section.
March 9
Death may have been like an old friend to Dad, someone he had met from time to time. I have no direct memory of him being afraid of death. Not before the big operation in 1973, when his artificial valve was inserted. What he suffered from was his forced powerlessness, the limitation of his creative ability. He suffered from constant aches and pains, from waking up soaking wet in the middle of the night as his heart was racing. He suffered from knowing that any cold or flu could kill him. He managed his health meticulously, checking his sugar levels every day. He took dozens of pills and drops for his cataracts. He didn't fear death, but he wanted to live, and if he couldn't be healthy, he at least wanted to feel relatively well. He did this when he could work, when it was warm, and the sun was shining. The warm weather gave him strength, and the pain was for the moment driven away.
*
Bervald was out today too, so it was quite a busy day, but no worse than that I finished at three. Went up to Ottendal after lunch. He looked a bit worried.
"No, I can't tell you today. There were more qualified applicants than we expected, and it will take time to go through all of them," he said.
"I thought I was in a pretty good position," I said.
"Well, at least you're not in the no pile," he laughed.
I kept a straight face.
March 12, Monday
"I talked to Ottendal and he said he had three or four people ahead of you in the queue."
That was Ljungberg talking. I was not surprised, but of course sad. I had sought him out to be able to give an answer to Aftonbladet.
March 13
For the past two days I’ve felt the loss of Dad. I had the urge to call him from work...
March 14
I overheard that one of the trainees from the College of Journalism got the temp job at the business desk. For me it was a personal defeat. To be rejected again after exposing my weakness by saying "I want." Going from disappointment to disappointment. Deep down in my stomach I’m crying. Feeling weak and worthless.
Will she get tired of me?
March 15
Life is a collection of scars
written on the walls of the heart
With each new defeat
each new miscalculation
your heart is bleeding
And every bleeding
leaves a callus,
a line of hardened skin
Each new scar
makes you less mobile,
more cautious
One is added
to the other
while you live
your only life
Your heart
moves less willingly
acts more cowardly
You mature,
grow older
You die
scar by scar
Then one day
you die.
*
We live in a world of losers. You can tell by the look in people's faces, by their facial tics, that they have lost.
*
I skipped the Journalist Unions' party. Not because I didn't get the job, but because I didn't have the strength. It was a busy day at work, and I had to work until half past six. The others left between four and five. I was editing an interview with Robert Rauschenberg, and it was taking too long. And since I didn't feel like meeting more colleagues on this day, I went to the Stockholm Public Library, where I borrowed a couple of books. Then home to read Amartya Sen.
March 19
Mom sometimes complains that she is depressed. What she misses is Dad's care and kindness, and someone to do the same to. She loves us "kids" of course, but we can't fill the void.
March 21
I signed a contract with DN. I’ll be starting on the night shift at the central news desk on May 3. Pay is 10,500 kr per month.
Her lips like peaches. We kissed, but did not make love, just cuddled. Then we lay in her bed and read T.S. Eliot.
March 26, Monday
I have been with her and once again reached brighter regions. When I called her this morning, it sounded like we wouldn't see each other until the evening, as she had to make a mandatory visit to a friend. When I called around one o'clock, she said she had baked a cake and asked when I was coming over.
"Come," she said, and I came.
*
I received a promotional offer from Warner Bros, so we went to Astoria to see the new movie The Big Chill. It was about a group of 1960s American radicals who met at the funeral of a central character from the group's college days. Alex had committed suicide and his death forced the others to confront their former ideals and ambitions. This is the radicalism of the 1980s looking at itself.
We have the same trend in Sweden where Fria Proteatern, Mikael Segerström and others examine their lost illusions. After the movie, we went home to her apartment and settled down in her bed. She was reading the evening newspaper Expressen, and I wondered if she was up to making love, or if I would have to go home without doing it, but it turned out to be both kisses and love.
Mental healing!
April 1, Sunday
"Isn't it hard to live in another country," I asked her as we sat in the kitchen eating avocados with shrimp and curry sauce.
"Well, it's difficult if big things happen, with my parents and so on. If I had children, I'd like to live close to my mother, but otherwise I'm not particularly attached to England. There are better opportunities here. At home it's so messy with unemployment and strikes."
*
I am tired – tired and happy – because I have Penny. But I mourn Dad. In a way, I also mourn Cecilia. It was a long time we were together.
I didn't think I could fall more in love, but I did. I'm thinking of proposing.
April 4
"I wish I could say I love you completely," she said just as we were about to make love.
"Is there something going on? Do you want to be free again?"
"No, but I'm sad that I can't give back enough."
April 5
"Where is Grandpa," Tom exclaimed as we celebrated Georg's birthday. I guess it was the fact that we were all there that made him think about Grandpa's absence.
"Grandpa is in heaven, he has traveled far, far away," was the answer, and something told him it was no use nagging. Grandpa would not come back.
Death is so painful for the survivors. It is a bundle of emotional strings that has been cut off. For Mom, every night she sits alone in front of the TV must be difficult.
April 9, Monday
"For Xenophanes there was only one God, a divine being who bore no resemblance to man and who was always present everywhere. No man had seen God and no man would ever know anything about God, there would never be any final knowledge of the ultimate things, only the opinions of different men."
(Hans Furuhagen, Grekernas värld, /The World of the Greeks/, 1982, p 165-166)
Trying to be Normal is the third part of novel with the working title Shifting Passions.
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