The Collector

I wanted what money couldn’t buy

pale, silky, like Burnet cocoons

It was seeing all those people. It made me see Miranda was the only person in the world I wanted to live with. It made me sick of the whole damn lot.

God is impotent. He can’t love us. He hates us because he can’t love us.

Room at the Top

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

Minny and I used to talk about guarding against being “father” types (because of M) and marrying father-husbands.

But this is what I feel these days. That I belong to a sort of band of people who have to stand against all the rest. I don’t know who they are—famous men, dead and living, who’ve fought for the right things and created and painted in the right way, and unfamous people I know who don’t lie about things, who try not to be lazy, who try to be human and intelligent. Yes, people like G.P., for all his faults. His Fault.
They’re not even good people. They have weak moments. Sex moments and drink moments. Coward and money moments. They have holidays in the Ivory Tower. But a part of them is one with the band.
The Few.

I suddenly felt I didn’t want to paint, painting was just showing off, the thing was to experience and experience for ever more.

The two of us in that room. No past, no future. All intense deep that-time-only. A feeling that everything must end, the music, ourselves, the moon, everything.