and tramples on it.
He hates me, he wants to defile me and break me and destroy me. He wants me to hate myself so much that I destroy myself.
The final meanness. He’s not bringing me any supper. I’m to fast, on top of everything else. Perhaps he’s going to leave me to starve. He’s capable of it.
I’ve got over the shock. He won’t beat me. I won’t give in. I won’t be broken by him.
I’ve got a temperature, I feel sick.
Everything’s against me, but I won’t give in.
I’ve been lying on the bed with G.P.’s picture beside me. Holding the frame in one hand. Like a crucifix.
I will survive. I will escape. I will not give in.
I will not give in.
I hate God. I hate whatever made this world, I hate whatever made the human race, made men like Caliban possible and situations like this possible.
If there is a God he’s a great loathsome spider in the darkness.
He
This pain, this terrible seeing-through that is in me now. It wasn’t necessary. It is all pain, and it buys nothing. Gives birth to nothing.
All in vain. All wasted.
The older the world becomes, the more obvious it is. The bomb and the tortures in Algeria and the starving babies in the Congo. It gets bigger and darker.
More and more suffering for more and more. And more and more in vain.
It’s as if the lights have fused. I’m here in the black truth.
God is impotent. He can’t love us. He hates us because he can’t love us.
All the meanness and the selfishness and the lies.
People won’t admit it, they’re too busy grabbing to see that the lights have fused. They can’t see the darkness and the spider-face beyond and the great web of it all. That there’s always this if you scratch at the surface of happiness and goodness.
The black and the black and the black.
I’ve not only never felt like this before, I never imagined it possible. More than hatred, more than despair. You can’t hate what you cannot touch, I can’t even feel what most people think of as despair. It’s beyond despair. It’s as if I can’t feel any more. I see, but I can’t feel.
Oh God if there is a God.
I hate beyond hate.
He came down just now. I was asleep on top of the bed. Fever.
The air so stuffy. It must be flu.
I felt so rotten I said nothing. No energy to say my hate.
The bed’s damp. My chest hurts.
I didn’t say a word to him. It’s gone beyond words. I wish I was a Goya. Could draw the absolute hate I have in me for him.
I’m so frightened. I don’t know what will happen if I’m really ill. I can’t understand why my chest hurts. As if I’ve had bronchitis for days.
But he’d have to get a doctor. He might kill me, but he couldn’t just let me die.
Oh, God, this is horrible.
(Evening.) He brought a thermometer. It was a 100 at lunch, and now it’s a 101. I feel
I’ve been in bed all day.
He’s not human.
Oh God I’m so lonely so utterly alone.
I can’t write.
(Morning.) A really bad bronchial cold. Shivering.
I haven’t slept properly. Horrid dreams. Weird, very vivid dreams. G.P. was in one. It made me cry. I feel so frightened.
I can’t eat. There’s a pain in my lung when I breathe, and I keep on thinking of pneumonia. But it can’t be.
I won’t die. I won’t die. Not for Caliban.
Dream. Extraordinary.
Walking in the Ash Grove at L. I look up through the trees. I see an aeroplane in the blue sky. I know it will crash. Later I see where it has crashed. I am frightened to go on. A girl walks towards me. Minny? I can’t see. She is in peculiar Greek clothes—drapery. White. In sunshine through the still trees. Seems to know me but I do not know her (not Minny). Never close. I want to be close. With her. I wake up.
If I die, no one will ever know.
It puts me in a fever. I can’t write.
(Night.) No pity. No God.
I shouted at him and he went mad. I was too weak to stop him. Bound and gagged me and took his beastly photographs.
I don’t mind the pain. The humiliation.
I did what he wanted. To get it over.
I don’t mind for myself any more.
But oh God the beastliness of it all.
I’m crying I’m crying I can’t write.
I will not give in.
I will not give in.
I can’t sleep. I’m going mad. Have to have the light on. Wild dreams. I think people are here. D. Minny.
It’s pneumonia.
He must get a doctor.
It is murder.
I can’t write it down. Words are useless.
(He’s come.) He won’t listen. I’ve begged him. I’ve said it’s murder. So weak. Temperature 102. I’ve been sick.
Nothing about last night, him or me.
Did it happen? Fever. I get delirious.
If only I knew what I have done.
Useless useless.
I won’t die I won’t die.
Dear dear G.P . . . this
Oh God oh God do not let me die.
God do not let me die.
Do not let me die.
3
WHAT I am trying to say is that it all came unexpected.
It started off badly because when I went down at half past seven I saw her lying by the screen, she’d knocked it over in falling, and I knelt by her and her hands were like ice, but she was breathing, it was a kind of rasping sigh, very quick, and when I lifted her back to bed she came to, she must have fainted in the night when
