Sometimes it's better to write it all down.
Jack Driscoll wrote the following on May 17, Milliways Bar-time, in his room in Milliways:
I am afraid. I’m afraid that everyone will leave me. Even you, Mary Anne. I’m afraid I’ll just bore you one day and you’ll leave. I know my family will leave me. My parents will die; my sister will move out of town. My friends? Some will go to California to write motion pictures. Some will go live in Paris. I’ll still be here, in New York, maybe making more friends, maybe not. But I know that if I make more friends they’ll just tire of me, too.
I wish I had the benefit of saying I’m too pessimistic, but I think that, considering what’s happened, repeatedly, in the past, I’m just telling the truth. I’m not that interesting. Maybe I’m too perfect. Maybe I’m too flawed. That’s the thing about the past: it tells me I’m not worth staying with, but it won’t tell me why. Should I write a letter to everyone who’s left me in the past and ask why they did it, what was wrong with me? Would they even listen, would they even respond? I know Satine wouldn’t. And good for her. I think I’ve become too obsessed with her for my own good. I don’t even know if I really love her or if I’m just obsessed. I don’t know. Do I love anyone? Or do I love anyone the way I should? Christ, I’m so confused. Frustrated.
What’s even more frustrating is I know who I want, and she doesn’t want me, I don’t think, and then there’s Ann, and I don’t think I really love her the way I did. Which makes me a jackass on top of boring. Yeah, I’m prime meat, here. Maybe I should just give in to being New York’s most eligible bachelor and watch the faces of the bachelorettes fall when they find out how much of a dull ass I am. Maybe they’ll leave me alone, then? Maybe I’ll fall off the face of the society pages, then?
I just think I should do it, I should talk to Desire, because I want to have my head back. I just want to write and live and live…with Pinot, I guess, since I’ll never settle down, anyway. I can’t. Nobody really wants to marry me-I mean, Christ, they can’t stay with me for longer than a few months. Till death to us part? I think she’d commit suicide after a year. OK. Maybe that’s too pessimistic. She’ll fake her death. There.
Yeah. I know Mary Anne is panicking about this but maybe it is for the best. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I do know that me and love just don’t get along the way we ought to. So there. That’s what I have to say. And I hope to God Vikki doesn’t try anything else because I’m not in the mood to deal with it. Just. Christ. I wish I could hide from everything and not have to deal with this. Not have to deal with knowing you just aren’t what people want. Oh, yeah, they love your prose, but they don’t love you, and-yeah. I’m tired of this. Really, really tired. And if I shouldn’t give up then what should I do? Go back to Ann like she’s some kind of consolation prize? Does she even love me? It would be better if she didn’t, then I wouldn’t have to let her know I’m the world’s biggest jackass and that I’m in love with someone who’ll never love me back the way she did, supposedly did, and-it never ends. It goes around and around in a circle and it never ends. How does it end? How can I make it end? Will cutting it all off make it end or will I just enter a new ring in the circle? I-I don’t think there’s an ending. And maybe I should just lay back down. And hide. It’s not an ending, but it is a delay.
---
Afterwards he went back to bed.
I am afraid. I’m afraid that everyone will leave me. Even you, Mary Anne. I’m afraid I’ll just bore you one day and you’ll leave. I know my family will leave me. My parents will die; my sister will move out of town. My friends? Some will go to California to write motion pictures. Some will go live in Paris. I’ll still be here, in New York, maybe making more friends, maybe not. But I know that if I make more friends they’ll just tire of me, too.
I wish I had the benefit of saying I’m too pessimistic, but I think that, considering what’s happened, repeatedly, in the past, I’m just telling the truth. I’m not that interesting. Maybe I’m too perfect. Maybe I’m too flawed. That’s the thing about the past: it tells me I’m not worth staying with, but it won’t tell me why. Should I write a letter to everyone who’s left me in the past and ask why they did it, what was wrong with me? Would they even listen, would they even respond? I know Satine wouldn’t. And good for her. I think I’ve become too obsessed with her for my own good. I don’t even know if I really love her or if I’m just obsessed. I don’t know. Do I love anyone? Or do I love anyone the way I should? Christ, I’m so confused. Frustrated.
What’s even more frustrating is I know who I want, and she doesn’t want me, I don’t think, and then there’s Ann, and I don’t think I really love her the way I did. Which makes me a jackass on top of boring. Yeah, I’m prime meat, here. Maybe I should just give in to being New York’s most eligible bachelor and watch the faces of the bachelorettes fall when they find out how much of a dull ass I am. Maybe they’ll leave me alone, then? Maybe I’ll fall off the face of the society pages, then?
I just think I should do it, I should talk to Desire, because I want to have my head back. I just want to write and live and live…with Pinot, I guess, since I’ll never settle down, anyway. I can’t. Nobody really wants to marry me-I mean, Christ, they can’t stay with me for longer than a few months. Till death to us part? I think she’d commit suicide after a year. OK. Maybe that’s too pessimistic. She’ll fake her death. There.
Yeah. I know Mary Anne is panicking about this but maybe it is for the best. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I do know that me and love just don’t get along the way we ought to. So there. That’s what I have to say. And I hope to God Vikki doesn’t try anything else because I’m not in the mood to deal with it. Just. Christ. I wish I could hide from everything and not have to deal with this. Not have to deal with knowing you just aren’t what people want. Oh, yeah, they love your prose, but they don’t love you, and-yeah. I’m tired of this. Really, really tired. And if I shouldn’t give up then what should I do? Go back to Ann like she’s some kind of consolation prize? Does she even love me? It would be better if she didn’t, then I wouldn’t have to let her know I’m the world’s biggest jackass and that I’m in love with someone who’ll never love me back the way she did, supposedly did, and-it never ends. It goes around and around in a circle and it never ends. How does it end? How can I make it end? Will cutting it all off make it end or will I just enter a new ring in the circle? I-I don’t think there’s an ending. And maybe I should just lay back down. And hide. It’s not an ending, but it is a delay.
---
Afterwards he went back to bed.