September 12
The "big" event of the day was of course the meeting with Angela. I was on my way to the math class at the Stockholm School of Economics when I spotted her at the other end of the corridor. It made me nervous, but fortunately I saw Zoubir and stopped to talk to him. Angela was chatting with Ylva, who was probably the first person to see me. Angela looked in my direction, said hello and smiled.
What did that smile mean?
That she understood the pressure I felt? That she smiled at the thought of this guy (i.e., me) had written her love letters? Did she smile at the secret? At her power over me?
I didn't walk over to them, but kept talking to Zoubir until the teacher let us in. There were about 30 people in the lecture room. We were in the same row, but on opposite sides.
Our eyes did not meet during the entire lecture. I observed her a couple of times. She had painted her nails. During the break, she hurried out and took the elevator down. Zoubir wanted to smoke, so we took the stairs down and went out into the courtyard.
When the teacher closed the door after the break, she had not come back, but after a little while she came with a friend. She had bought a pack of cigarettes — I didn't know she smoked.
Our eyes did not meet during this lesson either. Did she ever look at me? Was she angry with me? Or simply indifferent?
After class, I put on my coat, making sure that my mourning band showed.
I hoped that she would look in my direction when I left, but she didn’t.
Ylva caught up with me in the stairway and started to talk. She said that she was going through an involuntary separation. Her boyfriend had fallen in love with someone else and broken up with her. I asked how long they had been together.
"Four years," she said.
I told her about my involuntary separation — from my father. And that I had moved (hoping of course that she would tell Angela!).
Once home, I called Cecilia who said she had a sore shoulder. I took the car to Vårholmen to pick up my bike and some other things. At the same time I washed the dishes for her. We had coffee. I think she still loves me. She also has some hope. Her love and patience touch my heart, but is it enough? Something is still pulling me in a different direction? Towards freedom!
September 13, Tuesday
Slept late. Got up at quarter to eight. Had breakfast with Mom.
Death is doubtless. That's the only thing I know for sure. I have seen my father lifeless. I have felt his dead hair and his cold skin. There are so many good reasons why the way he died was fine. It was beautiful. He got to die at home. He didn't have to suffer. He died when life was at its best for him. But still. I wish he was alive now. That he was just sleeping, and that I could call him tomorrow and ask how he was doing. But like I said.
There is no doubt about death.
Everything else can be discussed.
Death is.
Dad is not.
The final endpoint has been reached
for our too short conversation.
His unique experience
we only suspect.
I can explore his art,
his notes, diaries,
the three poems,
the tape recordings
and the photographs.
But no more questions.
September 14
I have a hard time focusing, can't keep my eyes from looking at girls. I think a pretty law student with a big brown hair has her eyes on me. When I went to eat lunch, she followed me with her eyes. She saw that I saw and looked down.
Didn't do anything about the paper, though.
Talked on the phone for an hour with Carl. He was sad that he had not been at the funeral.
Tomorrow evening I'm going to the next lecture, where I will meet Angela. What should I do? Should I apologize? My own feelings are confusing. Am I still in love?
I do not know.
Red and black.
What do I dream about?
Lotte is particularly tame, Barthes writes about The Sorrows of Young Werther.
Does it also apply to...?
Her 'no' canceled my existence (Barthes.)
My heart is bleeding
in the open wound
my father left
when he fell
from us
The memory is so strong
His death added
a decade
to my age
Can I love
after this
Once I was carefree
I was a kid then
Never again.
September 15
I had to rethink my theoretical chapter. In practice, it was difficult to separate identity from authority. Identity is just a lubricant for power. Then I realized the obvious, namely that identity is not possible in times of scarcity.
If identity exists, scarcity cannot exist at the same time, because scarcity is a product of conflicts between the objectives of different actors.
If stakeholders can be made to state what they perceive as their needs — then identity can be created.
Scarcity: D > S [Demand greater than supply]
Identity: D ≤ S [Demand less than, or equal to supply]
Thursday evening.
Home alone. Outside is dark and rainy. I had planned to go to The Prince after the lecture, but once there I just kept on walking in the rain. It was not only because of Dad's death, but also because of the meeting with Angela. The lecture hall was almost empty when I entered at five o'clock. I sat in the far left corner about halfway to the back of the room. The same place as the last time. After a while Lena arrived. She cheered and took a seat close to me but with an empty seat between us. Then Ylva came and after a few minutes Angela appeared. She hesitated about where to sit. She didn't want to sit next to Ylva, but next to Lena, so she sat down between Lena and me.
Did she even want to sit next to me? Or was she so indifferent that it didn’t matter? (The inconvenience is mine! I'm sitting there with a bad conscience).
She was dressed in a dark blue suit and had a gold chain around her neck. Her beautiful hair was tied in a knot. She had no nail polish or lipstick, but her eyes were as usual irresistible. I had to look away so as not to reveal my feelings.
I think she watched me a few times. We talked a bit. I told her about Dad and she asked me how I felt.
"It's heavy," I replied.
I couldn't say much, just that it was unexpected.
On Monday I will meet her again. Why does it make me so nervous? I still feel like I could propose to her. She would make me forget all the other girls that attract me. But isn't that exactly why she is rejecting me?
I was dressed in my black linen suit, a yellow pullover and light beige shirt, with a burgundy suede tie. During recess, I stood opposite her. I wonder what she thought of me, if she thought I was handsome?
What role does Cecilia play? What does Angela have that Cecilia lacks, apart from the fact that Cecilia loves me? Is it that I don't think Cecilia can handle me, while Angela would?
If you don't even understand yourself — what do you understand?
The drive, the horniness — that I understand very well.
But should you have to become a deceiver to get it satisfied?!
Never mind. Back to the math lecture and Angela. After the lecture, she seemed stressed. She noticed that I saw it, and said that she didn't ant to be late for her tango lesson, but why did feel the need to excuse herself? I want so much to interpret, but it's futile. Am I in love again? Hard to deny. There is an excitement on my part, but perhaps it is, after all, just the excitement of sitting next to a beautiful girl to whom one has sent love poems and letters.
Is she enjoying my trouble? I was going to apologize to her, but I didn't. She seems to have forgiven me. Has she?
September 16
Funny that shoes can be so powerful. Actually, not so funny at all. Romantic youngsters like to go barefoot, while sadists prefer boots, black and shiny.
"He died with his boots on," i.e., he died capable of action.
I saw the last performance of Chekhov's The Seagull at the Royal Dramatic Theater with Mom and Cecilia. A wonderful play in all its sad pessimism. Discusses art and life. The human pain of not knowing any goal. The emptiness. A thought that surfaced during the play: When Dad, who so loved life, still died, I lost some of my faith in life. At least that's how I feel. Or am I just scrambling to find a poignant line to impress Angela with? She occupies me. I’m once again risking ridicule.
Women despise the loser. That was the meaning of a line in the play. So she despises me, I thought, because I failed in my love for her.
There was a loving pair in the salon three rows ahead of us. Her hair reminded me of Angela's.
I walked for an hour this morning and stopped by the Strindberg statue at Mosebacke Park before going up to the terrace, where I spoke aloud overlooking the September city's rain-heavy gray morning mist.
Right now I have lost the desire to hunt. I don't want to do anything. Is it Angela who pushes the others aside? Why does she fascinate me so much? I am afraid of her and feel like a little child in front of her. Is that my dream? To be a child once more?
Sunday, September 18, 23.50
Mom continues to share memories. Her distanced and objective image of her mother, and the understanding and warm image of her father surprised me. She has grown significantly in my eyes since Dad died, but it worries me that she is talking about her impending passing, as if her time is up.
Mom said that her dad one day took his typewriter under one arm and his mistress under the other, and left her mother and the eight children. Later, when they both lived in the Östermalm neighborhood in Stockholm, he would stand outside their house on Nybrogatan hoping to see his children. Only Sara made contact. She also stayed at his deathbed for a week.
September 19, Monday morning.
Looking out towards Maria Church. It’s 50 degrees (F) outside and raining. I long to express my grief and loss in poetry. But so far I am mute.
Afternoon.
I studied math all day, and then went to the lecture. She was there and asked me how I was doing. I said I felt so and so. I don't understand why she has such a pull on me. Strindberg would probably call it magnetism. She sat down in front of me. I admired her hair. No nail polish today. Dark gray suit and a pale pink blouse. She looked presentable, like a businesswoman.
I’m sitting at the end of the Djurgårdsbrunn canal near the pedestrian bridge. It has been an unusually warm September day. Around two the sky cleared, and a brilliant sun thawed the rain-soaked city. My thoughts move in an elliptical orbit with Angela and Dad as the two focal points, but it's getting cold, and I'm going to bike home. I replace the Brel cassette with Leo Ferré.
Evening.
Knowing that Cecilia still loves me torments me. She is so kind and she still hopes. I'm afraid of hurting her more than I already have. But what should I do? Should I flush my feelings? (Yes, yes, there are good arguments for doing that!)
Does it mean nothing that my heart reacts violently to Angela? Almost the same thing happened with Ann-Charlotte, but that infatuation was stopped in time. Now I sit twice a week at arm's length from this beautiful woman. And she speaks kindly to me, turns towards me and sees me. But in other moments I don't exist. Which moments should I believe? She is probably listening to me out of respect, looking at me because she knows I like her, and this creates a certain curiosity. That's all.
Then I think: Maybe it's over with her boyfriend and she doesn't have a new one. Maybe she is available? She must have felt something for me because last winter she said she was "flattered" by my courtship. And not least the fact that she looked happy when we met at the first lecture.
But who is she? Is she the discreet and serious student, or the dangerous woman who wears makeup and smokes? Maybe there is hope, if I take it easy this time.
But at some point I have to express my regrets.
She is tall and slim, almost fragile, but at the same time exudes sensual femininity. What is it about her that draws me to her even though it is impossible? The combination of intelligence, elegance and an inner depth — the mystery in her eyes.
The skeptic adds that what I perceive as secretive is her disinterest in me as a partner, that she is obviously and unquestionably uninterested. Is that so? But what if she changed her mind?
September 20, 01.20
I wake up and I'm on fire. Oh, my God! What does this mean?! Is it an escape from the grief over Dad? Why do I torment myself so? Why rekindle the fire that has already scorched my soul? I dream about her — these are not sexual dreams, but about the dilemma. Dreams of different ways to reach her, dreams of love. I worry. This could end in another emotional crash. Infatuation takes over the soul like a cold takes over the body. You fight against it, but the fever rises despite all resistance.
01.45
My thoughts continue along their elliptical path. As I lie on my stomach, I feel my heart beating against the mattress. Heavy, dull beats. Dad's death gives a new meaning to this sound. The idea that it might stop beating scares me. Death scares me. It drives me towards life. The only assurance against it is a new life — a child!
Do I want her to be the mother of my children? A good criterion. I detect some hesitation in myself. I think so, but I know too little about her.
When I hear my own heart beat, I remember Dad's entry in a diary.
"Last night my heart was troubled."
How he must have struggled with death, and this for a lifetime.
September 21
Wake up at 09.00. Listen to the news. The US is increasingly becoming directly involved in the fighting outside Beirut. Perhaps there will be a world war after all, I think. It's good that Dad didn't have to experience that, at least. Talk of a world war has become common. But the suffering is so far away.
Staying up late has its price. I was tired, so I took a brisk walk. Saw a helicopter from Ostermans Aero land on the pontoon down by the Old Town subway station. A man and three teenagers were waiting. I watched them fly away.
I was afraid that the rotor blade would come off and decapitate me, but I overcame the instinct to retreat.
Walked on towards the House of Nobility. I went behind it and looked at it for the first time from the "courtyard side," which has a statue of Axel Oxenstierna. The palace is impressive and its symbolism clear. The sword and cross are held by two figures on the roof.
If I'm going to have a girlfriend, she needs to be wise enough not to contradict me as soon as I express an opinion, which doesn‘t mean that I want her to be submissive, but rather a matter of intellectual respect. One should be careful and not "correct" other people. Nor should you ignore their opinions. It is better to listen carefully, think and, if you really have a criticism, make it. For quick interjections not to destroy the relationship, you need to know each other very well and be sympathetic.
A quarter before midnight.
Studied math today. I suffer from not being able to devote myself to fiction and poetry, but I still believe that my artistic ambition will benefit from math and economics. Or is it that my confidence is greater in the social sciences than in literature?
Dad still doesn't exist.
Only in death will we again be "together" in the complementary aspect of life — the non-being. Some speak so philosophically about the meaning of words, the mystery of language. I don't think the secret of life is blocked by the inability of language.
Life itself is an enigma. It can be expressed in different ways, but everyone knows what it is about. Another thing is that an elaborate speech/text can deepen our understanding of the existence of the enigma. But it is a question without an answer. That something exists is a miracle. It’s fantastic that two plus two does not equal five.
I'm almost 30. Dad got 30 plus 41.
September 22, Thursday
"See you on Monday," she said as we parted after the math class.
I have to curb my emotions. Otherwise, I'm in danger of hitting the wall. I hardly know her. I only know that she is gentle, intelligent, beautiful and kind. I only know that I love her. But I don't know what she thinks. My plan is to take it easy, not to do anything, but to let whatever is there mature. I dress nicely for the lectures and today I had a hair cut.
We sat next to each other. Why do I love her? Is it the excitement or the fantastic project of trying to win a girl's heart. I thought for a moment that this is a six-month project. The goal is to win her as a life partner. I have become so old that I now want to get married, if I find the right one. My heart cries out: IT IS SHE! But I know so little about her. Perhaps our interests would pull in different directions.
We sat next to each other. Why do I love her? Is it the excitement or the fantastic project of trying to win a girl's heart. I thought for a moment that this is a six-month project. The goal is to win her as a life partner. I have become so old that I now want to get married, if I find the right one. My heart cries out: IT IS SHE! But I know so little about her. Perhaps our interests would pull in different directions.
September 24, 00.30
We buried Dad today. The representative from Fonus brought the urn covered by a small black cloth. The weather was clear and beautiful. We walked a hundred yards beyond the Chapel of the Resurrection to the reach grave. A hole had been dug, covered with a sheet that had a round hole at the center. A wooden stick behind it was marked Videmark. We rented the space for the grave. I don't like that, but I didn't want to argue about it when we visited Fonus to talk about the funeral. If no new body is placed in the grave after 25 years, it can be removed. I'm afraid that's what will happen after Mom. Georg, I and Per will live too long.
The Fonus representative put the green urn into the hole. We put some roses in with the urn, the rest we put next to the hole.
Before we left Skogskyrkogården, we visited Grandma's grave. It was an old and dark stone, with a stylized sun over the text, which read:
MOA
MOR
FAR
Moa was Mom's sister. She died of a brain injury when she was 15. There is no family name on the grave stone since Grandma was a practical woman. With all her daughters, it would be difficult to add new surnames.
*
Per drove a taxi between 16.00 and 21.00. At five Kicki came with Tom. She was going out with a friend and mom would be babysitting.
After dinner I took Tom for a walk to the Maria Square. I wanted to show him the statue Thor's Hammer, which he ran laps around. Then he said ice cream, and I took him to the ice cream parlor, where I bought a cone which we shared. He liked that.
I tried out the role of being a dad. Then we continued up to the Mariaberget playground where we admired the view. Tom saw boats, trains, cars (he loves cars!) and airplanes. He was very happy when we returned to Grandma's house. I read the storybook and he fell asleep.
Cecilia called. She wants to meet in the afternoon to talk about things she can't talk about on the phone.
I wonder what?!
I feel sorry for her.
Damn triangle drama!
How do I know that I am in love?
I have lost the desire to chase others. I don't want to go out and try to "pick up" anybody at a disco. I only want to see her. She has pushed the others away. Björn told me on Tuesday that he doesn't fall in love. He said it with sadness in his voice.
Saturday night
I laid down on the couch and fell asleep. Woke up just before six. Listened to the weekly sermon on radio. In the past, i.e., during the 1970s, I used to get mad when there was church stuff on the radio or TV. Now I listened to the sermon with interest. Not that I have become religious, but I’m increasingly fascinated by the religious stories, and interpretations of moral/material conflicts.
At eight I took the subway to Östermalmstorg. I had planned to go to The Prince, and read the London Review of Books over a glass of red wine, but it was already packed, so I walked down to Café Gråmunken, where I sat for a long time. It was dark and raining outside.
Wood and glass. Old brown wooden chairs, tables and sofas. A tapestry on the brick wall behind me where I sit on the sofa. In front of me a large window facing the alley. To the right, an open entrance door, and an open window facing Västerlånggatan. From the kitchen in the back, choir music can be heard as usual. The place is full of people and the cigarette smoke is thick.
Had my eyes on a girl with big curly black hair, slim body, nice legs (black socks) and intense dark eyes. Her face was long, narrow and sharply drawn. I already found her attractive her a warm evening last summer when I walked along Västerlånggatan. She was sitting on the sidewalk listening to a troubadour.
However, she ignored me.
Stayed until half past ten. An inexpensive evening — 17 kronor. And I got some reading done too. I still don't feel like going to a disco. It’s not so much because of grief as Angela.
September 26, Monday
I think it ended today. I don't know what's worse — loving without getting an answer, or losing faith in love. Because if I suddenly just stop being in love — what have I been doing for the last year? Well, I haven't only spent time with her, but she's where I've spent most of my energy. And then it's over. An image is replaced by another image. Whether it’s more realistic I don't know. I thought of The Confession of a Fool as I walked home after the lecture. Is hatred the only way to liberate oneself?
Towards the end of the lesson, she started rummaging through her handbag looking around as if she had dropped something. She looked scared and frightened. For me, she suddenly became a human being, and not a goddess. My image of her changed. And now I no longer write as someone who loves, but as someone who analyzes. Exit amore!
On the verge of 30, I feel more empty-handed than ever before: humanly, financially, politically, etc. Yet I believe in the power of my resources. But the meaning of using them — it is reduced.
On the verge of 30, I feel more empty-handed than ever before: humanly, financially, politically, etc. Yet I believe in the power of my resources. But the meaning of using them — it is reduced.
I understand why Dante necessarily wanted a lot of circles in his Hell. It must be possible to rank the suffering — otherwise you get bored.
For me, the past year has looked like this:
First the political crisis — the end of a conviction that lasted a decade.
Then the relationship with Cecilia broke down. The catalyst was Angela.
Meanwhile, the 30-year crisis is maturing and coming to the surface.
Then Dad dies.
As I begin to work my way out of the slump through research, I’m again confronted with Angela and fall in love again. She is as indifferent as before. Even that bubble bursts.
What remains? To start writing the novel would be to admit that the book is finished.
September 27
I went for a long walk after breakfast with Mom, and having listened to the radio news shows, "Nyhetsmorgon" and "Ekot." I struggled with my grief, my disappointment, and my lack of destination.
There is no other place for me. Only here.
My future? Two days ago, I imagined it as an engagement in spring and a wedding in early summer. Fatherhood and life. Now it's gone. Now mathematics tastes empty. Now I’m indifferent to the the math tasks. It’s mostly to keep up appearances that I occupy myself with things. So as not to lose momentum. Without work, a person collapses. Loneliness eats him up from within.
Today is Tuesday. I am conflicted about Thursday. I had been looking forward to Monday. Hope drove me. Now it is the destructive power of analysis that leads me. I want to observe, pick apart an image, become a realist, tear apart a piece of my history. But what to do with my guilty conscience? I offered coffee on Monday. The unspoken line was:
You don't have to pay for it. This is a modest payment to relieve my guilty conscience.
Will I use it on Thursday?
I'm not looking forward to Thursday, but it comes with tension.
A lot of money brings success among women, but to get the money you have to sacrifice love.
Midnight, September 27
3. "This is what death is, most of all: everything that has been seen, will have been seen for nothing. Mourning over what we have perceived." In those brief moments when I speak for nothing, it is as if I were dying. For the loved being becomes a leaden figure, a dream creature who does not speak, and silence, in dreams, is death. Or again: the gratifying Mother shows me the Mirror, the Image, and says to me: "That's you." But the silent Mother does not tell me what I am: I am no longer established, I drift painfully, without existence.”
(Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse, 1977, p 168)
"SILENCE. The amorous subject suffers anxiety because the loved object replies scantily or not at all to his language (discourse or letters)." (p 167)
September 29
I asked Zoubir about a math problem after the class. Angela gathered her things. Zoubir explained a little awkwardly. I put on my sweater. It was as if she lingered a bit. Did she want company to the subway? Zoubir kept explaining. She said hello and left. Maybe I'll get over it, although the barometer pressure ticked up a bit today.
It was a heart attack that killed Dad. I found out today.
Thursday 23.00
I couldn't decide whether to seek a job as a layout and text editor. Today was the last day to apply, but I saw in today's paper that the deadline had been extended to October 3. My money is running out, and if I work nights, I earn 10,000 kr per month, but time is slipping through my fingers. That's what I'm afraid of, but I need the money.
I’ve been thinking about Cecilia. She grows as the others depreciate. If I had wanted to fight, I think we could have saved the relationship, but I didn't want to fight. I was in love with someone else adrift on the blue oceans. As for now, I want to close the doors to my heart. I burn too much energy on emotional excursions. Burnt child ... nonsense.
My dream: Art.
But to take the plunge?!
A big step.
What about the research?
October 2, Sunday morning
Cecilia wanted us to meet. We saw de Kooning's paintings at the Museum of Modern Art. Large canvases, beautiful colors, but I was still not very impressed. I don't understand why he would be so big. It's decorative, but not much more. She had put on a skirt and fancy shoes (I noticed this and realized she was doing it for me).
There was a line at Café Opera, so we continued to the NK department store, and ended up at Salad Bar seven floors up.
What it was she want to talk about?
Two things:
She is still in love with me.
She wants me to remove the rest of my stuff from the apartment.
"Otherwise, it’s as if your move is only temporary."
October 3
I applied for a job on the night editorial desk.
Worked on my paper for the better part of the day. Chapters 1-4 are now finished. Rewrote almost all of chapter 3. Straightened out crooked stuff, etc.
She was at the math lecture. She seemed cold, but did sit down next to me. I don't understand her, but neither do I understand myself. During the break, she made no effort to be "social." I went downstairs and bought coffee and four gingerbread cookies that I intended to give her. I took my coffee to the courtyard, where she sat smoking next to two guys from the course. I complained about the quality of the coffee. She said she regretted not buying coffee. I gave her a gingerbread cookie and the rest of my coffee after she put out her cigarette.
At the end of the second lesson, the teacher messed up when dealing with implicit functions. She spotted the error and insisted, and she was correct. I was very impressed. She is intelligent and brave.
At the same time, she seems shy and a bit naive. Who is she? We walked to the subway. She complained that it's so dark now, A train was in and she rushed to catch it. She didn’t say anything, but looked to see if I was keeping up. Politeness?
There were two others from the course on the train. She placed herself near the center aisle. I watched her.
"Are you going to the party?" she asked.
"What party," I said.
"On Wednesday," she said, and then I remembered that it was an party for economics students.
'I don't know. I haven't thought about it," I said.
She looked at me as we talked, but didn't give anything away. She has a poker face. I had a line on the tip of my tongue, but I left it there:
"Burned children shun the fire."
I had planned to say it as she was leaving the train, but decided against it.
"See you," she said and disappeared.
*
"Like Stendahl’s Octave, I never know what is normal; lacking (as I well know) all reason, I would prefer, in order to decide on an interpretation, to trust myself to common sense; but common sense affords me no more than contradictory evidence;... A man who wants the truth is never answered save in strong, highly colored images, which nonetheless turn ambiguous, indecisive, once he tries to transform them into signs; as in any manticism, the consulting lover must make his own truth." (Barthes, p 214-215.)
October 4, Tuesday
"The lesson the Communist leaders drew from the events of 1917-1921 was therefore to distrust mass politics as unreliable, to seek no allies except for tactical objectives, and to rely on conspiratorial methods of organization." (Communist Political Systems, 1982, p 49-50)
October 9, 00.45. Night towards Sunday
Turn pages at random in Barthes.
"1. I look for signs, but of what? What is the object of my reading? Is it: am I loved (am I loved no longer, am I still loved)? Is it my future that I am trying to read, deciphering in what is inscribed the announcement of what will happen to me, according to a method which combines paleography and manticism? Isn't it rather, all things considered, that I remain suspended on this question, whose answer I tirelessly seek in the other's face: What am I worth?” (Barthes, p 214)
I was hungover yesterday since Björn and I had been to the disco "Studio." The style was pretty tough, and the audience a bit too young for us. Björn danced some, but I never got around to it, which makes you feel rather ridiculous. The entrance was free before ten.
It started to raining when we left around two. I almost got into a fight while waiting for the night bus. A young long-haired narcissist started to provoke me, eager to start a fight. He clearly wanted me to hit him first, so that he and his friend could do a wushu demonstration, or something like that.
I refused to be provoked, despite the fact that he was beginning to beat my chest with a clenched fist. My diary cushioned the blows. I thought about leaving since I didn't want to fight, especially not against two wushu guys. A taxi stopped and four kids got out. This diverted the troublemaker's attention, and after ten minutes he was slapping the face of a person who was easier to provoke. Fortunately for me, the bus arrived and I got away from the fight. The troublemaker's "philosophy" seemed to be that by picking fights he would force others to stand for something, so that he could defeat them. Simple.
01.20
I saw Strindberg's The Dance of Death with Carl and Rut at the Dramatic Theater. Starring Keve Hjelm and Margareta Krook. Knut was played by Jan Blomberg. The production was quite good, but not brilliant. Björn Nilsson was right when he wrote in Expressen that it was difficult to follow when Knut fell for Krook. But the text is brilliant. Strindberg is fantastic!
Another World War could come — not because the US or the Soviet Union want it, but because none of them wants to lose face in a crisis situation. And crises multiply. Like the recent assassination of four South Korean cabinet ministers in Burma, which could push tensions between North and South Korea to a boiling point. Or if Iran closes the Strait of Hormuz, and threatens the West's oil supply.
I read a couple of poems by Pierre Emmanuel in the new issue of Artes and link the mood in them to Milosz and myself. Östen Sjöstrand, a poet and member of the Swedish Academy, has a small essay on Emmanuel:
"...Emmanuel thinks that we have a particular difficulty in discerning meaningful forms of life in the crisis or crises we all face, that we find it extremely difficult to take the time, or finding time, to separate fact from appearance, the essential from the inessential." (Artes No. 5 1983 p 15)
"...to return to the true language presupposes the grasping of the deeper unity (Where language and morality merge)." (ibid.)
'This grounding in a specific social and political reality must have played a decisive role in Pierre Emmanuel's treatment of language. This affinity is also based on the poet's rejection of all anti-intellectual movements. Instead, he sees reason and consciousness in their most vivid realities, like fired up reason and explanatory light." (p 17)
"He wants to illuminate the regimes of fear, everything that threatens human life, in order to seek the apparent meaning of what seems to be happening." (ibid.)
"We cannot abolish conscience, he thinks, we cannot escape responsibility for the consequences of our actions. And to be separated from the totality of the action, he sees as a sin." (ibid.)
October 11, Tuesday evening
Are we moving towards a world government? The rivalry between the superpowers, and the others could be a prelude. Compare to the formation of the United States. A world government to avoid annihilation. A world government over a world of classes and nations with great differences in income.
October 12, Wednesday, almost midnight
Depressed.
Cecilia suggested that we see the ballet Swan Lake. She continues her fight to win my love.
In the last few days I have been reading some poetry that I like, but my life is currently a matter of math. Worked on Maclaurin and Taylor development.
N!=n(n-1)(n-2)....(3)(2)(1)
Maclaurin f(x)= f(0)/0!+f'(0)/1!+f''(0)/2!.....+f(n)(0)/n!
Not very lyrical, but I’m beginning to understand the technology.
October 13, Thursday
Grief eats through the soil of the soul. Only grief and loss can create. He whose stomach is full sleeps.
I sit in a corner of the apartment and look through four rooms.
My eyes are the windows between the first two.
Again I listen to Schubert's Death and the Maiden.
Again, again, and again. Is there no way forward?
I walk through three rooms, but I’m always still, enclosed in my exclusive being.
My indifference to my surroundings scares me. Schizophrenic?
No, I’m always one. It’s this deeply rooted immovability in my being that weighs me down.
But you can die. Dad proved that to me.
The root of my loneliness, my anti-social nature, is in Västerberg. Two people from the north once arrived there with all their dreams and energy. They were not like others. They were alone among the 8-5 crowd. They were respected, but lonely.
The foliage of the trees in Maria Cemetery is now turning yellow.
I do not feel fit to compromise.
And you have to compromise in a relationship.
My love is total, all-encompassing. Therefore an anachronism.
The Soviet threat to Sweden becomes more and more evident.
I spent the morning at home, reading. Attended a math lecture 15.15-19.00. Fun, but mentally exhausting.
Afterwards I met Mikael at The Prince. He has been in Malaysia for a couple of months, and has written a report for the Export Council. He got 100,000 kr for it. Minus social security tax, 44,000 kr. Printing costs: 12,000 kr. Housing costs in Malaysia: 10,000 kr. Plus literature and other costs. This left 20-30,000 kr after tax. Not much when you worked 14 hours a day.
No world war yet.
October 14
Mikael is disappointed that the world does not sufficiently recognize and reward his genius.
As for me, I have a sore throat. Despite the possibility of a World War.
To abolish the global weapons of mass destruction is as impossible as finding the way back to Paradise.
"Civil government, insofar as it is instituted to protect property, is in fact instituted to protect the rich against the poor, or those who have property against those who have none."
(Adam Smith, in Whynes and Bowles, 1980)
October 19
Visited Rudolf Fors' at his home to talk about my paper. We only got as far as the Great Leap forward. Rolf asked if I was interested in selling the paper (or a revised version). He will check with some friends at the Bureau of Eastern Economics. We had tea just before midnight. I didn't get a ride to the commuter train this time, so I had to run in the rain with only a vague idea of the way. Barely made it to the station as the last train for the night pulled in. Today I have training ache in my calves.
October 23, Sunday morning
Read a fascinating article by the exiled Czech writer Milan Kundera. About the novel. There is a deep and genuine humanism among the Eastern European dissidents. The equivalent in the West is the never-incarcerated communist "dissidents" — from Camus to Glucksmann.
I’m torn between culture and economy in a double sense! No time to read any fiction. Only math and various articles related to my essay work.
Mom visited the retired editor S.A. at his place. She thinks he’s in love and can't hide the fact that she is flattered, but can’t think of having a new man. She said that she was somewhat shocked (or is she just pretending?) to be courted, to be attractive.
I miss my Dad. It occurred to me that my children will never have a grandfather. I didn't have one either. Grandpa died in 1922. Dad was a very simple, and at the same time a very complex person.
October 26, 00.30
I brought my stuff over from the apartment and have been working on populating the bookshelves over the past few days. Still not finished by a long shot.
I met Fors at his office. We discussed the paper for three hours, but only managed to begin talking about chapter 4. We had good discussions, but he obviously hadn't read chapters 4 and 5.
Life serves no purpose.
Is that doom and gloom?! No, it isn't. Only this realization makes it possible to live in the present. But you can certainly feel it when you have been deprived of any faith.
I believe in life, which I distrust.
I'm sick of women.
The only sympathetic one is Cecilia, whom I have abandoned since she doesn't turn me on.
I would like to have a child.
In one month I will be 30 years old.
Haven't done anything yet?!
Nothing major.
At Café Gråmunken.
It was impossible to study today. I arrived late to the University with the consequence that my territory in the library was occupied. I had to do with sitting in another area where it was freezing cold. Besides, I was emotionally out of sorts.
There were a few too many blows. In a way it was good that I didn't get the job at DN, but at the same time it felt like a door was shut for me. Being denied a job has some similarities to being rejected by a girl. It lowers your human dignity. Someone denies you.
The US invaded Grenada. It quickly and relatively painlessly overthrew the regime that staged a coup a few days earlier.
Since it was so cold and I couldn’t concentrate on my studies, I left the University Library after lunch. I bought the latest issue of the New York Review of Books and Lui.
My mind only grew heavier.
Thirty-year crisis. Thirty-year crisis.
I don't give a damn about women. I hate you, I was about to write, when a delightfully pretty girl walks into the café. I melt, but soon regain my dark mood.
Death as a liberator from all aspiration, from all desire.
Am I becoming a Hindu?!
Went home for a while, but soon went downtown listening to Edith Piaf.
It was around four in the afternoon and the sun was golden red near the horizon. Norr Mälarstrand is beautiful when glimmering like gold.
The skating rink in Kungsträdgården has opened, even though winter still feels far away. But the trees have shed their leaves and Almarna stand black next to the green king.
I was walking and Piaf was singing.
I went to shake off the sadness, to shred the depression, to regain strength.
All morning I struggled with a math problem. I got stuck on the following expression:
rMd = fy Y/f (1/y x dy/dt) + fi i/t (1/t x di/dt) = E Rmdyy + E Rmiyi
After an hour's walk I ended up at Gråmunken.
Inward-looking, listening, mute to the world.
In front of the Molin fountain, a girl kissed a boy. It was painful.
The willow trees stretch their branches in vain towards the swirling water at Strömmen.
I must work on the math problems, but it will be difficult to mobilize the necessary energy. I want to be a poet and writer — not an economist! But maybe it's just another escape, on the verge of becoming 30. I keep revealing my maladjustment. As a writer, I don't have to adapt at all. This is a great advantage.
I get plenty of solitude. This solitude that is so important, so unbearable and so difficult to achieve. Always alone.
Is it voluntary, abnormal? No, I don't think so. Loneliness is our first and most basic condition. Social life is short. We are social in daily and vividly recurring pulses. Now, now, and now. But beyond that we are alone.
Light is just a star in the dark universe.
Took an evening walk, but couldn't bring myself to enter the Night Life club. Didn't want to go alone. Wandered around the city for three quarters of an hour. Heavy. Very heavy.
Today was one of the warmest October days of the 20th century.
Midnight
The pressure ahead of the exam is getting stronger and stronger. I want to escape it, and postpone taking it another month. There are reasons to wait. The paper is the most important thing, but?!
I want to go away, to be alone. I want peace and quiet, to shut out all impressions. Concentration.
I have accumulated so much. But nothing comes out.
30 years and nothing.
I am here, Milosz claims.
How incredibly difficult is this simple statement. Who dares to stand up in the crowd and say out loud: I am here! This is me. Love me for what I am.
If you send out an honest statement and it is rejected — then there is a war between you and the others. One must be crushed and that would be you. You are only one.
If you lie and flatter — then it is not you that they may reject, but only that which is not you.
Lying lubricates life.
The superficial is social.
Therefore, I am asocial.
The social must be superficial, because it is a compromise.
By avoiding persisting, we become citizens of the society.
The depth of the self is the well of loneliness.
The black hole of the soul is the self.
Thursday evening.
Sat at home and worked on the math in the morning. I worked, but rather slowly.
A cloud of black ash
has settled down
I mourn and miss
I am worried
because I have no income
because I don't have a course
because I neither do what I want
or want what I do.
Almost thirty years.
Thinking about not celebrating my birthday. Celebrate what?
What have I done?
What was Dad thinking when he turned 70?
On his life, his wife and children and his art.
But also the lack of reviews, the absence of a major breakthrough...
What was he thinking when he copied Dan Andersson's poem To the Pain?
I felt deep anxiety at eleven, and it lasted all afternoon.
When I entered the lecture hall, Angela was sitting there. Imagine my surprise.
"Oh, I thought you had dropped out," I said.
"No, but I've been so busy at work," she said.
I sat down next to her.
She asked if she could borrow my lecture notes. She took my phone number, and said she would call me next week.
Strange girl. At the party she didn't even say hello. Now everything was fine, and she was really nice. I suggested during the break that we should have coffee, and offered ginger snaps. We sat and talked for a while. She told me about a disputation party at the Stockholm School of Economics.
No, I did not fall in love again. But I was glad that she didn't seem to be angry with me.
The muteness of my relationship with the world, and people is frightening. I am silent.
There is no stage where I want to play.
I want to write poetry again, but I find it so difficult to reach an inner peace. I need to withdraw from the world, but the horniness always drives me back to the dance floor.
It is now over a year since I began my little odyssey. In that year, I've fallen in love half a dozen times — all of which have been unfortunate, more or less traumatic.
My father died on me. I moved, and it looks like DN closed its gate — but for how long?
Actually, I only want one thing: To write a novel like Don Quixote, like Švejk, one with humor, an absurd thing that makes us laugh and cry. Like Chaplin. Like The City Lights.
How can I untie the Gordian knot that binds the economist to the humanist?
I want to write theater, poetry, prose. But I also want to (do I?!) .... do research.
Look at Jan Myrdal!
Yes, look at him. A good writer, and a bad scientist. But the life he leads ... that's how I want to live!
Traveling and reading and writing.
But love?
The one that burns up 90 percent (slow down now, say 40 percent for the sake of realism) of my energy.
Put your feelings back into the freezer. Yes, I'm starting to feel almost ready for that.
But if this is the result of my 29th year — a series of defeats?
Defeats and defeats. I have also abstained from many conquests because I do not want to hurt.
It is so difficult to deceive other people — especially girls. I cannot feign interest, and I am not indifferent. I quickly sense when there are no conditions for a mutual sympathy.
And my heat doesn't rule, it only torments. It only rips and tears.
Since I feel that my life is so undecided, I don't think I'm ready to start a family. I am attracted to cute and chic girls, the vain and mildly coquettish. In short, those who are not "my type" and for whom I’m hardly "their type."
I'm not entirely unattractive to women. At the university library, I have seen four or five pretty and cute girls looking at me. I look back, but am I interested? No, hardly. They are too young and naïve.
And those who are a bit older and wiser. They are already taken. There are the rings around their fingers.
Talk about the power of the ring.
It marks a territory.
Who is a barbarian?
My exam is on Wednesday. My panic has been replaced by fatalism. I don't think it's possible, but I continue reading anyway! I feel that I have to.
Why I am writing tonight.
Simple.
I bought two new diaries today. And this one is about to run out. It feels like a challenge to write it to the end. To let the words flow, call it stream of consciousness, or rather filibuster writing.
When I sat down next to Angela, I was nervous. It just happened. Couldn't help it. I saw how my fingers trembled when I had to show her something in my notes. My fingers were shaking like when you receive the change for a men's magazine, or a pack of condoms. You try to be cool as ice, but your fingers don't obey, and your voice becomes tense and monotonous.
The last page.
There will be no poem. What am I missing since my lyrical pulse has faded into a flicker.
That's it. There I am on this unusually warm October.
My entire heart flickers.
Only the self feels the pulse.
Fibrillation of the soul
The spasm of life
at the end of
the first period.
Northern hemisphere
at one end of a spiral arm
traveling through the universe.
Destination unknown.
Love without a Compass is the second part of draft novel with the working title Shifting Passions.
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