(no subject)
I just did a terrible thing. After art class today, I went into a coffee shop, ordered a chocolate cake with cream and a pot of tea with milk and sugar and I went and sat downstairs and read a Jeanette Winterson novel, Written on the Body, for an hour or so. It's not the calories I am worried about, just that awful desire for comfort, for rest. I just don't want to ever give into physical desires, I want to be a disembodied mind. I want to not sleep and not eat and to just be productive all the time. I hate that I don't feel like studying now, and when I do I shall make a half hearted effort. The novel is OK, perfectly readable, just a bit warm, bit sticky and a bit cloying, and I don't think anyone can write a novel about infidelity that could surpass Graham Greene's The End of the Affair. I love the sentence at the end of The the End of the Affair:
I think it is something like (I can't find the book at the moment): "O god, leave me alone forever, I am too old and too tired to learn to love."
I shall start writing now, I bought a cheap bottle of whisky in case I get stuck.
I think it is something like (I can't find the book at the moment): "O god, leave me alone forever, I am too old and too tired to learn to love."
I shall start writing now, I bought a cheap bottle of whisky in case I get stuck.