July 5
I see a girl stroking her boyfriend's hair at the subway station. It occurred to me that this was something I really missed when I was with Cecilia.
July 7
Worked 10.00-18.00. Took bus 62 to the stop by the Opera House. I had thought of eating at the outdoor veranda of the Daily News Café but changed my mind and continued towards Norrmalmstorg instead. It was warm and not particularly windy. Listened to Schubert's Death and the Maiden which I’ve done so many times since I bought the cassette. With Schubert in my headphones, I looked out over my city for a long time while the July sun dazzled me as it slowly sank behind Kungsholmen. A Finland cruise ship steered towards Stockholm on the other side. I walked up to Mosebacke Square and had another coffee at Mosebacke Restaurant. The view from the terrace was lovely, but neither there could I stop, restless as I was. By then, I had walked for two hours, and had not had a proper lunch besides a yogurt at the beach by Smedsuddsbadet. However, my starving body matched my state of mind.
The experience of the city as it offers itself up in all its naked beauty to every spectator, while totally ignoring you. Love it as much as you want, but don't expect a response.
I should of course have gone straight home and spent the evening working on my paper, but it’s like every sunny evening could be the last one. Tomorrow it might rain, and how will I forgive myself if I don't take the opportunity to enjoy the city. I took the elevator down to Slussen and then bus 46 to Norrmalmstorg. Feeling dizzy from hunger and with Schubert in my headphones, I steered back to The Prince where I had a small carafe of red wine, roast beef, and potato salad. For a moment I thought I saw Angela at the other end of the room. “Merdre,” I said to myself as my heart hesitantly slowed down. What if it was her, what if she could see me. My pulse rose, but I don't know if it was out of joy or fear. How can I redeem my traumatic non-relationship with her?
About my time on Öland. A wonderfully unhappy time. Wonderful because I met such a nice person (I dislike the word girl, as well as woman — what do you do?)
Oh, my God! It's she, or .... I tremble and my mental processes freeze. I look in her direction. Is it her? Will she see me? Will she come over and forgive me, or will she pass by without recognizing me, or ignore me? No, it is not her, but someone who is forcing me to think of her. If I only had been a Catholic and been able to confess? Is it her? No, well, maybe, her hair looks like that, but when would she have come in? She could hardly have been sitting there when I came in without me noticing. Now my heart is beating noticeably faster. Why this stress? When I left at half past eleven, I saw that it wasn't her, which of course made me both disappointed and relieved.
It hurts to listen to Schubert. Sometimes his music is soothing, sometimes it rips into the most tender, lonely points of the organic chaos that is my soul. The eye is indeed the mirror of the soul, but it has such an uneven surface.
Cursed are we all, for we have eaten of the fruit of knowledge. We have lost touch with the child’s mind, we forgot how to play. For us, every step is part of our heart's plan. For us nothing is unique but can also have another place. Between the places we can move the pieces — play our life’s game. We are the engineers who can open the gate of happiness. What we see is only a mirage.
July 11, Monday, 00.15
Last Saturday Björn and I went to town. We strolled in the warm summer night looking for girls and had a beer at Café Opera, but it was too hot in there, so we went back out again. White wine at Daily News and then to the Old Town where we walked back and forth on Västerlånggatan. Back to the Daily News. More white wine. Björn did some flirting and I tried to make eye contact with a couple of girls. Around two we left the place and sat down by the fountain in front of restaurant 7 Sekel. There were hundreds of young people there and some were bathing in the fountain.
We split at three in the morning. I walked alone through the Old Town towards Slussen to catch the night bus to Vårholmen. The sky began to turn red in the east and the city lay majestically calm in a shimmering pale light. Lake Mälaren’s water lay almost completely still. At quarter to four the bus arrived and at half past four I went to bed.
On Sunday, Cecilia, Björn and I went swimming at Smedsudden. It was 33 degrees in the shade.
After work I walked from the paper via Norr Mälarstrand, Kungholmstorg (beautiful and green), and Sergels Torg to Kungsträdgården. There I sat for two hours looking at girls, which made me terribly depressed (well, well!) Continued to Västerlånggatan. On Strömbron, I walked past two girls who looked at me as I passed. Our eyes met, but I looked away and moved on without taking the extended gaze.
I was thinking of sitting down somewhere, but didn't get around to it, so I took the subway home. I almost fell into tears on the way home. For a while I thought I was hungry, but it was a hole that could not be filled with food.
July 14, 01.50
No postcard from Ann-Charlotte. That was my first thought when I saw the brown envelope with this week's Beijing Review. I sat down at the kitchen table, prepared two sandwiches and a glass of yogurt with sugar on top. By chance, I started reading a story by Theodor Kallifatides.
"I made coffee, smoked a cigarette, selected a record, Faure's Requiem..."
In the break between the editions, I went down to the café by the waterfront at Norr Mälarstrand for a coffee. A cool evening. Riddarholmen and the north side of Södermalm stood out in yellow against a clear blue evening sky. I watched the seagulls, saw the ducklings snapping at insects flying above the surface. Read a bit in Artes about Hölderlin's poetry.
July 16, Saturday
Our culture’s focus on the short-term perspective is a stimulus for art and love, but also for war.
Disappointed by the collapse of collective ideas, we think we can live outside the state, but the state remains and sets boundaries.
Those who love people always lose to those who love power.
Those who love are moral, and morality weakens power.
I took it easy today, but my calm was interrupted by loud honkings outside. Almost immediately I thought, a Gypsy wedding! I remember having seen such a wedding in Paris 1975. There was also a terrible honking. Now they came in a caravan of eleven cars up Björkholmsgränd. The bride and groom rode in the first car, which was decorated with ribbons and a giant girl doll in the front. Most of the cars were big and fancy. Volvo, Mercedes and BMW. Their penchant for big cars catches people's eyes, but is it any wonder that people with nomadic traditions care about their vehicles!!!
*
I spent a couple of hours in the evening working on the theory chapter and wrote a dozen pages to formulate some ideas. Re-read the old theory chapter and the new sketch I wrote on Öland. I discovered a couple of errors in it. There is no "Pareto optimal" situation in a political system. The notion of Pareto optimal is apolitical in nature. However, one can speak of a greater or lesser degree of competition in the political system. The absence of "correct" prices and linkages between resource use to payment means that there is no automatic tendency towards balance. Quite the contrary (according to the Public Choice school!)
A political monopoly allows for concentration of resources and power, but this entails greater risks and less feedback on decisions. A political democracy allows for faster correction at the information stage, but not necessarily faster implementation.
I read some Dante before falling asleep.
“To its own substance whatso active there
It finds, and make one single soul complete,
Alive, and sensitive, and self-aware.”
(Purgatory, Canto XVIII, Sayers, 1955, 1983, p 265)
July 17, Sunday
Creation. The very idea of the world being created is a fantastic idea, an expression of the human desire to include everything, to understand everything. A human god creates everything. This is fantastic! This idea of the ultimate action of actions. But every action gives rise to anxiety — hence the Fall. The entire Christian creation story is one big utopia. God created a paradise, aka the party leads us to communism. The concept of God stands for the vision, the dream of something radically different. Through belief in the Kingdom of Heaven, earthly life can be questioned — totally.
During the weekend I read Ma Hong's New Strategy for China's Economy (Beijing 1983), some Dante, and worked a couple of hours on poetry. Checked my calendar. Ugh! The summer is short. The paper is not yet finished. I didn’t read more than 75 pages of math. Shit!
*
Sometimes I think I am in paradise. Like now. Having coffee on the wooden veranda of Konditori Lyran, leaning my left arm on the railing and listening to Fauré's Requiem while the evening sun warms my back. The fjard is beautifully blue, the surface lightly rippled by the breeze, a two-masted sailboat is slowly heading towards the city, it smells of maple and birch, and Lake Mälaren is framed by green, the rich, yet fresh and heavy green color that is so typical of the Swedish summer. The sky is crystal blue, almost clear of clouds, and a seagull hovers high above the bay five hundred meters from my café table. In the foreground, a sparrow chirps in a birch tree, and the sound breaks through when Fauré's choirs take a break.
Yuri Orlov began a hunger strike in a Soviet labor camp on July 10 to pressure the authorities to grant amnesty to political prisoners. Viktor Tomachinsky, the only Russian who dared to sue the secret police has died of pneumonia in the town of Volgoda. He was arrested and sentenced to one year in prison for "parasitism" after suing the KGB. He claimed to have received a promise to emigrate to the US. When the case was dismissed, Viktor felt he had won half a victory and threw a vodka party. A few hours later, KGB knocked on the door....
July 18, Monday
Feeling a slight panic about the fact that summer has passed the halfway point. What have I done? The paper must be completed.
I read two articles in the latest issue of Social Sciences in China, as well as some stuff in Artes, and various press clippings.
July 20, at The Prince.
Allan Nilsson called me to a meeting about the August schedule in the manager's room. He mentioned in passing that I had been given an extension for September — at least. Well, I haven't asked to work beyond August 26. I didn't say no, but hinted that it might conflict with my research. I have to talk to DN. They pay better and I like it better there. Last night I drank a few cups of coffee after I got home. Read John K. Galbraith's Economy and the Public Good. Thought about the paper. At midnight I went to sleep. Woke up around one o'clock because of the coffee and could not go back to sleep.
01.20
I’ve just read Purgatory XXIX, XXX and XXXI. Dante leaves Virgil and Beatrice calls him to account. Song 31 is probably the most beautiful so far. A huge, burning, total love poem. Utopian in its demand for devoted love.
“Such nettles of remorse stung me thereon”
(Purgatory, Canto XVIII, Sayers, 1955, 1983, p 317)
“My eyes being set on her to whom my mind
Was altogether subject and in prison:”
(Purgatory, Canto XVIII, Sayers, 1955, 1983, p 324)
Summer is almost over. I have to rush the paper now, but I am facing difficult theoretical problems. The idea of describing the political system in parallel terms to the economic in a model based on centralization of power does not hold. The systems overlap. No pareto optimum can be constructed for the political "market" because of the absence of price relations. No direct feedback exists in the model for the economic decisions of independent individuals.
July 22
Friday morning at home in my parents' apartment where I spent the night. Reading the preface and first chapter of Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire while listening to Joni Mitchell.
With a "cautious yet vigorous policy," Augustus managed to force "the most terrible barbarians to make all the concessions that the safety and dignity of Rome might require."
Isn't that a striking picture of contemporary Russian foreign policy? These agents of enlightened socialist despotism regard the United States and Western Europe and the rest of the world as barbarians.
"The various tribes of the British were brave, but they lacked leadership, they were freedom-loving, but they did not understand that they had to unite." (Gibbons)
Friday
Took the ferry out to Djurgården at ten. Walked to Café Ektorpet in the park near Prince Eugen’s art museum. A sunny and beautiful morning, but with cool winds. Sat down to have coffee and read the first chapter of Peter Bohm's Social Efficiency. Only a couple of guests, but sparrows, jackdaws, and a squirrel visited — unabashedly begging.
I walked across Djurgården and north towards Rosendal Castle and further along the northern edge towards the city. Then via Strandvägen to Kungsträdgården, where I now have coffee under Almarna.
Silence, a recurring existential experience. My silence before the world. Sometimes I am so quiet that it is as if the world is in me and not the other way around. But my thoughts are unfortunately not heard when I think of a beautiful girl not far from me.
I cannot decide whether this silence is based on honesty or mere cowardice. Whenever I have tried to overcome what I thought was cowardice, my conscience has struck back. Not always, of course. Sometimes you can overcome your limits without violating those of others. Sometimes!
July 23, Saturday, 00.50
At home in Mom and Dad's apartment after a very busy evening at the newspaper. There were major changes between the editions. One bright spot, however, was that I managed to squeeze in my new China article.
As I sit here looking at a copy of the page with my article in the paper, a thought goes to Angela where she sits at her job. I hope she sees it and is impressed. Then I hope that Ann-Charlotte in Borgholm sees it, like all the other girls I've been flirting with. Oh, how nice it is to publish, to leave a small trace in the minds of others.
It's vain, of course.
July 24, Sunday
Economy is a special case of politics.
Politics is about the power to make decisions.
If decision making is evenly distributed, decisions are made in an environment of scarcity (= each resource has an opportunity cost), decision makers are independent, then under certain conditions a Pareto optimal situation can be defined.
Even without these conditions, we may be dealing with economic decisions, but in a more technical sense.
*
The Maria Church strikes half past ten.
In Aristotle's time, the Constitution was carved in stone, or cut into wooden slabs. In the United States, the Constitution is sealed in a similar way.
"...the Constitution of the United States is secured in a marble hall in the National Archives where it is hermetically sealed in a vacuum. It can be covered in 30 seconds by machinery weighing 4.5 tons and protecting against nuclear weapons."
(Peter Calvert: Politics, Power and Revolution, 1983, p 14).
After the third world war:
200 years later, an intact constitution carved in stone and vacuum-packed was discovered in the former capital city of the United States.
In the remains of Moscow, Lenin's sarcophagus is slowly raised from an opening in the marble floor. Lenin's dead body has been saved from nuclear war, but the elevator mechanism was damaged, so Lenin is constantly going up and down from the underground.
*
Love has two meanings - hope and despair (Joni Mitchell).
P. Calvert: Smiling is a social behavior to show one's submissiveness.
Me: Strindberg never smiled in pictures.
"In fact, the very idea of a state is historically unique to Europe; there is no exact parallel in the Islamic tradition, which assumed a unity between the state and religion. And there is also no equivalent in China because the Chinese tradition only allows for a universal society focused on the emperor." (Calvert p 28)
Law is about protecting a tribe's three belongings:
People, pigs and gardens (Roy Rappaport's formulation).
*
Power vs. Market:
The market can emerge when power is evenly distributed.
"...the use of restrictive codes can limit feedback processes." (Calvert p 64)
It is precisely the diffusion of power, the decentralization of authority that explains Yugoslav "market socialism."
July 25
Yesterday morning I read Peter Calvert's book Politics, Power and Revolution and Włodzimierz Brus' contribution to Social Theory & Political Practice.
The weather was beautiful and I felt the urge to visit Smedsudden (the desire!) To ease my conscience I packed some books. Then I lay and sunbathed and listened to music in my freestyle. By chance, I heard an interview with the dramaturge Ola Olsson "on the art of telling a story." It was just what I needed. Obvious stuff in itself, but not for the uninitiated.
From Smedsuddsbadet I began to walk along Norr Mälarstrand towards the city center where I had coffee under the elm trees, listening to Schubert and Joni Mitchell. I read a little. Walked through the Old Town towards Slussen. Saw a couple of cute girls, but didn't dare/want to take any initiative. Took the subway home, cooked dinner and finally sat down to read and continued to do so until after midnight. Had nightmares. That I fell out of bed and in half sleep tried to stop burglars. In the dream, I tried to turn on the overhead light and wake up, but I couldn't.
Until I woke up.
July 26
"...while the Chinese, using pyramid-like administrations, laid the foundation for an unusually stable social as well as administrative structure, and in time came to influence the formalization of bureaucracy in the British Empire via the Nortcote-Trevelyn reforms." (Calvert p 120).
July 28, Thursday night
I tried to write chapter 2 of my paper but didn't get anywhere. However, the thought process paid off when I tried again. Now I believe I can finish it this weekend, or early next week. Also started reading Knud Faldbakken's novel The Honeymoon, which reminds me of Sven Delblanc's Speranza.
I turned down the offer to continue at SvD in September. Talked to DN about a potential halftime position, or work in December.
I received a letter from the Swedish Board of Student Finance (CSN) today. It looks like I must pay 2,300 kr this fall, in addition to this year's fee of 2,700 kr (of which 1,800 remains). I exceeded the income limit last year and only reported it in February when I realized it. This puts a serious dent in my finances.
July 29, Friday evening
Alone "at home" in Vårholmen. Ate. No mail. Feeling terribly gloomy. My body and soul cry out for tenderness and love. Which I voluntarily give up. I went home instead of going into the city as I have to work on the paper, but the depression blocks me.
Overcast outside and overcast inside. The same gloom was behind my decision in the spring of 1976 to accept Cecilia's courtship.
I still haven't managed to put my paper together — after almost two years. Beginning to fear an intellectual failure right in time for the fall when I turn 30.
*
On the op-ed pages there is a discussion about the role of literature and art. Sven Lindqvist, Jan Myrdal and others miss the fundamental issue. Art is pleasure, it is part of life, part of what politics should respect and protect. Art is not politics. What good is freedom without art? Without man?
*
My future feels shaky. I can't see beyond this year. What should I tackle? Family — How?
As Milosz wrote: Writing is about what we don't understand. Then my chances ought to be good.
July 30, Saturday, 00.15
Almost done with Knut Faldbakken's The Honeymoon which is an intense depiction of love. The composition is brilliant. New doors are constantly being opened. Bit by bit, the cover is removed. It’s skillfully conceived and there is a heart pulsating violently behind the book, as if it is alive.
A thought struck me right at the beginning of the book. It must have been inspired by Sven Delblanc's novel Speranza, or some possible model for both books. In Speranza there is also a young hero with a pompous, self-aggrandizing, rational utopia, who meets us in language — initially. Then, step by step, he encounters larger and darker parts of reality. Both novels are goal-oriented journeys that take place in closed rooms — the ship and the hotel in the mountains, respectively. Both tell the story of a hero who is harshly confronted with reality, who is forced to reveal his feelings as the arguments fade.
The book burns in me and gives ideas about my inner self, my fear of real women, my ambivalence towards the mother figure. The women I love, I repel — Oedipus?
Saturday evening, 23.40
Got up early. Nice weather, but cool. Took my Walkman and went for an hour-long bike ride. Breakfast and then back to working on the paper. Wrote two pages with my typewriter. Not bad!
*
Faldbakken made me realize how scared I am of women, or maybe I'm simply afraid of losing myself in a new love affair! He describes a fantasy in which he experiences an erotic tension between his father and mother. But it was only a fantasy. In fact, their sexuality was invisible. I have a similar experience. But why am I so blocked in front of girls? One makes me cry, but I don't even respond to a flirt.
July 31, Sunday morning
Tired. The weekend feels like a failure, as does this summer. And what about this life — the only one?
*
I myself have always avoided groups, with one exception, my time as magazine editor. In my block of Västerberg, there was a group of kids my age. They hung out and chatted in the afternoons and evenings. I knew several of them, but I never wanted to be part of the group. Why not? Was I excluded by the groups in some half imperceptible way, or was I excluding them? Or both? I'm probably pretty antisocial, but is that enough to become a writer and poet?
Milosz wrote about Polish war- and resistance poetry that good poetry is written afterwards, at a distance. But with distance, desire diminishes.
My moment under the elm trees with Schubert under Almarna is disturbed when the Royal noise battalion passes by.
It’s two minutes before August 1st. I’m sitting in the Mariatorget subway station waiting for the next train on line 13.
I am satisfied since my fourth China article will be published in the paper tomorrow. Nice layout and a teaser on page one.
I am dissatisfied today, as well as every other day that I go home alone to something that is not my home.
Faldbakken's novel was really good, but unlike Delblanc's, it had a 'happy' ending.
Here comes the train.
"By then I had four children. Don't give up! It's not good enough to be depressed!" (Says a 55-year-old woman to a 40-year-old in the same train car.)
*
Two girls in their 20s sit next to and across from me. A Turkish (I think!) boy of the same age comes on. When two seats become available on the other side of the aisle, he sits down. Then he starts flirting. He sits wide legged, leaning back with his hands clasped. Looks straight and openly at the girls next to me. They react. The one opposite me puts her hand over her mouth and whispers:
"Cute!"
They giggle. He watches. Then they leave the car while saying some tourist phrases in Italian. As they pass the window, he blinks his eyes. The girls jump and talk happily as they continue along the platform.
August 2, 00.20
The windowpane creaks. A storm seems to be on its way. I talked to Per today. It’s been a while since the last time. I also called Mom and Dad on Öland. Dad said they missed me. I knew that.
Carl called at half past four. We talked for a while, but I was a bit stressed, because work starts to pile up around five. Last time I saw him I gave him some of my prose and poems. I was eager to hear his critique. That's why I didn't call him back but waited. Now he called. He thought I should write a book. We spoke on the phone again at ten. I was curious about more specific criticism. He said that I know how to write, that the texts were good — even the poems — but that they were too short. I should write a book. I had the subject. It was more positive criticism than I had dared to expect. Carl and I have a special relationship. I have the utmost respect for his judgment, so the praise really strengthened me.
This intensifies the battle in me between the humanist, the journalist, and the economist. But maybe it is possible to do everything at once? I've been working on the paper for an hour every morning the past few days. It's growing — chapter two is taking shape again.
As I was riding the subway to work, a small episode occurred.
I saw that a girl waiting for a train was looking at me. When the train came in, she stood diagonally in front of me, half facing me. She entered at the back of the car, while I entered at the middle. There was plenty of room in the car, yet she soon came and sat down opposite me. She looked at me with open eyes. Our eyes met for a moment, but neither of us moved a muscle. Then the train pulled out. I looked at her from time to time and thought she was quite good looking (just quite!) I guessed that she was playing some sport. When I looked at other things, she looked at me. I think she was waiting for me to smile, but I can't smile without first deciding to take a terrible risk — love. I can't bring myself to play with other people's feelings.
August 4, 01.30
Finished my pages late last night, so I missed the 23.55 bus by a good margin. Walked over Västerbron to Hornstull station. The train should have arrived at 00.35 but was 10 minutes late and packed. Gröna Lund's 100th anniversary had apparently attracted a lot of people.
My relationship with women is turning increasingly depressive. I'm becoming more and more convinced that it goes way back — my problem. Why don't heavy women turn me on? Ten kilos too much and I look away. Is it the mother in them that scares me? One of the hardest things about living without a woman is the daily lack of physical contact. I am freezing.
Thursday
Worked on my paper. Had two beers and took the ferry to Gröna Lund where I watched the Carola spectacle.
Why this distance? Because I'm sitting at The Prince, writing after having had three beers, feeling the pressure from my surroundings. I was thinking about why things went the way they did with Cecilia and me. The words gradually lost their value.
August 5, Friday morning
Depressed. Sitting with two books in my lap. Alec Nove on socialist economics and one about novel writing... I choose the novel. But is this my choice?
The return. When can I return to Västerberg and look people in the eye? Not yet. Once I am mature, the people I was thinking about will be gone.
I read in Expressen that chaos had broken out at the Gröna Lund event. Carola's comment:
"It looked pretty messy for a while, but that's natural when there’s such a big crowd. And what can I do but pray that no one gets hurt?" (August 5, 1983)
Would Jesus have said that?
August 6, Saturday, 01.05
Had a beer at The Peince. Klas Östergren was there. He didn't recognize me, so I didn't bother to say hello. I sat alone for an hour or so. There was a cold draft from the window. Eventually the painter Torsten Jurell showed up with his wife (Klas's sister!) They sat down at Klas's table. I greeted Torsten on my way out and shook hands with Klas and his sister.
I then drifted around the city for a couple of hours until I collected myself and went to Daily News. Boring. Would have preferred to go to the Garage (free admission on Thursdays), but they only let in jetsetters. Had a fourth strong beer. Left around 11:30 p.m. Then the depression comes chasing, or rather creeping in like the cold humidity of the morning mist.
What should my novel be about? Johan and the women. A subject I do not understand.
At Skanstull’s subway station.
It’s like my actions are governed by some strange dream of harmony, an attempt to avoid conflict, to avoid fighting, to avoid hurting anyone, to sacrifice my own interests for the sake of harmony. This is not a good starting point for a life in the wolf pack. And the wolf pack is not as inhuman as you might think.
Sunday night 02.45
In the afternoon I spent a couple of hours working on my paper. Finished the outline for a new chapter 2. On Sunday afternoon I will type it up. I think I solved the issues with it.
Went to Ritz Bar and entered after some hesitation. It was free entrance, which was good since I was prepared to pay 50 kr. Fortunately, I had dressed completely in black, except for my gray Rhodi Heinz jacket. Black short boots, black linen pants and a sleeveless black sweater. And I had my hair cut on Friday. Good thing because there were mostly punk rockers, David Bowie fans, and Bill Wyman types. Guys with painted eyelashes and mascara. Black was the color of the day, but I must have looked like I could fit in with the crowd. I took a beer and stood by the dance floor which was a small square in the middle of the room. I got the impression that people here took their style seriously. Most girls and guys were rockers, punk rockers, or punk influenced. The music as well. Hard, rhythmic, and danceable. Wise from my experience of Garage, I didn't ask anybody to dance but remained an observer. I didn't see anyone else doing it other than within their group. However, there was quite a lot of solo dancing among girls and boys. And guys dancing with guys. I stood like that for a couple of hours. What the hell to do? Many of the girls looked intimidating in their monster hairstyles and absurdist makeup. Some were attractive, but unapproachable. I thought about going up and dancing myself, but I decided against it. It would suck if you had to dance with yourself when you go out. Or was it so that since the girls sucked, I could as well dance with myself? I asked a girl, but she said "no, but maybe later." I waited a while. Then I went up and danced alone. Stepped on a girl's toes. I put my hand around her waist to apologize and she seemed to accept it.
August 7, Sunday, Under the Elm Trees.
It occurred to me as I was working on the paper today that love is inseparable from power. Two people can coordinate their decision-making in three ways:
- They voluntarily combine their wills into one.
- The stronger one dominates the other and lets its will prevail.
- They enter into an agreement as equals.
The first variant corresponds to pure passion, or love. But the result of the first two is the same. Only one will is visible to the outside world.
An effective oppressor is one who wins the love of the subjects. If you love your oppressor, you are always powerless!
But how do you determine whether someone is being oppressed? If the dominated appreciates his situation, is the oppressor expressing the will of the oppressed? Hit me, ruler!
“For, though sense lead the way, thou’rt now aware
Of heights the wings of reason cannot scale.”
(Paradise, Canto II, Sayers and Reynolds, 1955, 1983, p 64)
“Nay, ‘tis the essence of our blissful fate
To dwell in the divine will’s radius,
Wherein our wills themselves are integrate;
Whose being from threshold unto threshold thus
Through all this realm doth all the realm so please,
And please the King that her in-willeth us.”
(Paradise, Canto III, Sayers and Reynolds, 1955, 1983, p 75)
Perfect legitimacy!
“But our least acquiescence signs a pact
With force; so did these souls — for to regain
Their holy house ‘twas will, not power, they lacked.”
(Paradise, Canto IV, Sayers and Reynolds, 1955, 1983, p 83)
Monday, August 8, 23.55
Today I typed out the entire second chapter of the paper. Then I read it on tape, listened to it, and at six I began rewriting the whole chapter again. Now all that remains is to rewrite the last two pages. It will be nine pages long. After such a day's work there is not much room for sadness. But I do miss a girl all the same.
August 9
Tuesday morning at Strand-Cafét on Norr Mälarstrand. The sun is shining on a cloudless sky. I hear lapping waves a yard away. Cars are whizzing to my left, an ambulance siren is heard in the background, and motorboats are buzzing at a distance. Högalidskyrkan shows half past nine. I start work at ten. Fifteen meters ahead of me stands a bearded thirty-five-year-old cooling his feet in the water.
*
A warm and pleasant evening. I’m having coffee at the Bredängsbadet beach. I first cycled to Café Fyran, but the line stretched out to the courtyard. In search of alternatives, I ended up in this beautiful bay. There is a cool breeze. Children play and parents rest. A fishing boat with its sails hoisted is heading this way with its engine running. Mireille Mathieu can be heard from a crackling speaker. The setting sun paints a golden path across the water straight towards me. The beach is quite small with lush green oaks, birches and pines on the sides. At the far end the primeval rock comes through in a rounded smooth cliff. How wonderful it is to live.
I first see a four-year-old Italian child come up to the table and look down at the water. Then the father arrives. He says something and they go down. The mother follows with a black SLR camera and a couple of lens bags. I feel the urge to start a family.
August 10, 00.15
Do men fear strong women? The first strong woman in a man's life is his mother. If a woman is like a "mother" — does she lose her attractiveness? The genetic barrier to inbreeding may be the secret to men's and women's desire for something different. When the secrets are revealed, love — the desire — ceases.
Maybe also a way to prevent overpopulation?
August 11, 01.05
Just arrived at Mom and Dad's apartment. A little drunk. Today I mailed the paper to Fors, i.e., chapter 2, "Theoretical approach."
Morning news on radio: Asala — an Armenian terrorist group is threatening to kidnap Carola Häggkvist to trade her for the drug dealer Keewoek who could face 12 years in prison. A Druze group has kidnapped three Lebanese ministers and is demanding the resignation of the government. The increasing interdependence gives small, determined groups more and more power.
August 12, 18.45
The truth is that I voluntarily refrain from making contacts. With my eyes, I first signal that I am turned on, but immediately afterwards that I am not interested. This is the problem: Why am I not interested?
August 14, Monday
I was having coffee under the elm trees when a girl asked if she could sit down. I said okay even though I had been looking at another girl, one who had black hair, red lips, and fishnet stockings, but seemed more interested in her girlfriend.
"What are you reading," she said, sitting down.
"An article about China," I said.
"Have you been there?"
"Not yet."
With that the conversation had started and would probably have gone on for quite a while if it wasn't for the sun disappearing, and the evening breeze blowing in from Saltsjön.
"It's getting cold. Let's have a bite to eat," I said.
"I'm not hungry."
"We can have a beer."
"I don't drink alcohol."
"Then I can eat and drink, while you have a glass of juice."
"Where?"
We went to The Prince. I ordered a pepper steak and a small bottle of René Barbier while she ordered a salad and a club soda. We talked about China, psychology, and many other things.
One thing she said that stuck with me: She works at a drug clinic and told me that many addicts are middle children. The first child gets all the attention, but just when the second child thinks he's at the center of the world, the third child comes along and steals the show. Was it like that for me too? Maybe romance became my drug.
August 15, Tuesday evening
Having coffee at Café Gråmunken. The weather was bad, gray, but warm. Had been sitting at home reading The Chinese Economic Reform. I have one objection to Sören Clausen's article. He has misunderstood Xue Muqiao's position (and probably also Chen Yun's). They are not Stalinists but market-oriented "Marxists" who emphasize the need for strategic investments.
I have again gone through chapters 3 and 4 of my paper. Sketched out ideas for how to revise each chapter, but I hardly have time for that. The most important thing is to continue to work on the final chapter: China's dilemma. Perhaps it should be called The Dilemma of Democracy. Too many suggestions and ideas are flowing when I try to tie up the loose ends in chapter 5. At some point I have to finish this shit!
August 16, Wednesday
Reading Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving. He is wise and does not indulge in any rationalization as I feared after reading Francesco Alberoni in Falling In Love and Loving.
Am I narcissistic if I want to love one particular person and no one else?
August 19, Friday
Dad's hand. Once my father and I were walking along the Sergelgången in the city. I was probably eleven or twelve. Suddenly he told me not to hold his hand. I remember being surprised and a little hurt, but at the same time I understood the meaning: It was time to stand on my own two feet.
August 20, Saturday
As I walked across Västerbron bridge, I clutched the keys dancing around in my pocket. Why are we so addicted to holding on to something? Is it the newborn's grasping reflex, or something we choose to do? Do people smoke in a silent protest against having no hand to hold, the same reason that makes others want to hold a glass? Hands that close around nothing.
August 21, Sunday
I remember how little I once understood my father's art, how I asked for politics where he wanted to depict the beauty of life and nature. Only fifteen years later did I understand that politics is there for the sake of art, and not the other way around. For art is the most beautiful thing we have; it’s the credo of life. When Afghans are fighting in the mountains against murderous Russian flying machines, the Mi-24 attack helicopters, they are fighting for their art, for weaving their carpets, for laying their mosaics in their mosques, for their handicrafts, for their equestrian competitions, for their black felt tents, for their library in Kabul, for their culture. The culture they defend is Afghanistan.
*
Here and there I see other young men in their 20s and 30s sitting in cafés, writing in notebooks similar to mine. I feel both sympathy and rivalry. This is my field! I wonder if what they write about is more interesting than what I write. But mine is certainly more concentrated, more in-depth, experienced, and intellectual. One can always wish!
*
She was lying on a patch of grass in front of the red wooden fence in the Mariatäppan Park. It was a sunny day and I stood there towards the street, enjoying the boats on Riddarfjärden and the view of the Old Town. She was there yesterday, and now she was smiling at me. I was going to go over and say hello, but I didn't. What do I want from her? To play? But she seems to be a serious person.
I sat down and listened to Joni Mitchell's tribute to Charlie Mingus. A few kilometers away, I saw a red city bus pull up behind a house in the Old Town only to appear on the other side a moment later as cars crawled on Tegelbacken and green subway trains slammed across the Railroad Bridge. Eventually she got up, shook out the blanket, and put on a black cotton dress with a bright red string that she tied around her waist.
My eyes followed her every step as she walked away unencumbered and barefoot. I think she sensed my gaze, but cowardice kept me in the grass, so now I sit alone on the floating glass veranda of the Strand-Café listening to Barbara Streisand while the August moon hangs white as ice in solitary majesty against the blueish black summer sky. The dark waters of the bay shimmer with reflections of the blue neon lights of Svenska Dagbladet and the white neon lights of Dagens Nyheter. In a couple of minutes, I will go up to the night desk work on tomorrow's news.
August 22, 01.30
“The faith in others has its culmination in faith in mankind. In the Western world this faith was expressed in religious terms in the Judaeo-Christian religion, and in secular language it has found its strongest expression in the humanistic political and social ideas of the last hundred and fifty years.”
(Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving, 1956.)
Bravo Fromm!
But he confuses the question of power between individuals with the question of social power. Submission to an individual's power is not the same as conditional submission to a democratically elected state power.
Good on the importance of courage. (p 118)
"To love means to commit oneself without guarantee, to give oneself completely in the hope that our love will produce love in the loved person." (p 118)
There is a mailbox on Hornsgatan.
"Love is an act of faith, and all whoever is of little faith is also of little love." (p 118)
What is the connection between my lack of productivity and my fear of love? (p 142)
Fromm's book contained much wisdom. It is a gentle and humanistic analysis of the modern human condition. But his optimism about the future, inspired by Marxism, means that he overemphasizes adaptation, discipline, as means for developing love. It's largely a conflict-free utopia, which is why his vision seems to float on clouds. Compare to the more explosive nature of love in Alberoni.
Fromm is too pious.
August 25, 09.45. Norr Mälarstrand
Sun haze. A female duck stands on a rock lying just below the surface of the water. She is washing herself and cleaning her feathers with her beak. She jumps when she hears another duck in flight. It lands five yards away, but retreats. Then my thoughts turn to girls. The question is: How far does our language go? Would language be enough if I had captured an economist, but then got bored with the subject?
You have to listen to the language of the heart. But society has different values and speaks a language that has been impoverished by the process of exchange between people. Love is individual. Language summarizes, de-individualizes. Language replaces image, sound, smell. It helps us to remember, but it is not. I am.
Love without a Compass is the second part of draft novel with the working title Shifting Passions.
1 comment:
read your latest. Fine stuff there. Very involving.
Post a Comment