I’m afraid to go back to PR because the force of my attraction to that girl is just breathtaking. I want to imagine a long life together. She has a boyfriend—plus, I’m the client. Impossible to puncture the membrane; or, at least, ill-advised folly. I bet we would be happy together: I can tell that we would.
Why? She’s not dissimilar to J–: they are both kind of sallow; but they both imply secret depths. They’re both serious in that way. I wonder if her boyfriend is serious, or just a fling? He’s not as good as me: no man is. How could he be? I am an artist, an intellectual, an athlete. I have great depth of emotion; I have lots of cool, unusual experiences; I have great integrity and sincerity. I’m fit, I have a nice face. I have very little social power. I’m shy. I’m neurotically guarded. I’m vain, narcissistic, which is why I am so prone to self-hatred. I have no life. Gymcel! Bad teeth. I’m desperate: desperate to give myself to a woman. This one seems like a good choice because—I recognize her. From where? Just from myself, you know.
The next stories to write: Spinoza story; Korlin story; the story of Me as an Artist.