November 12, 2017 §
I am like a dead man, I live so much in my own little world. People find me appallingly lifeless and are horrified by me. I live inside myself, in a world of dreams and reverie, the Kingdom of Death. Girls come along every so often and try to lure me out like Pepe le Moko, but the resulting catastrophe always sends me scuttling back inside, resolving never to let myself be lured again. I cannot exist in their world. I live for solitude and isolation. Loneliness and abandonment.
November 12, 2017 §
I navigate from place to place where my solipsism will be least inconvenienced and least threatened, I navigate at times of the day and times of the year when my solipsism will feel least awkward. I avoid happy, fun-loving, party-going people and seek out instead quiet, melancholic people, though no one is ever as quiet and melancholic as me. I like melancholy. I like gloom. I like solitude and isolation. To be alone in a Grand Hotel is my ultimate dream. If it is by the sea, that is even better. I should really indulge this opportunity of being able to stay in 5-star Radisson hotels in Berlin and Vienna and Brussels and Oslo for just £30 a night. Solipsism is my opium. Solitude is my opium. Isolation is my opium. I prefer to go back to the same places and see the same pictures in the same art museums. They are my closest friends. I always want to go back to see Adolph Menzel’s Baroque Altars, Viktor Muller’s Salome, Franz von Stuck’s Salome and Die Sünde and Tilla Durieux as Circe, Hans Makart’s Summerhouse and Four Senses. Alfred Stevens’s Salome, Tresors de Satan, Le Genie du Mal, La Figure Tombale. I will always want to go back to the Staatsoper, the Deutsche Oper and the Komische Oper, and La Monnaie. I will always revere the Brussels Gare du Midi, Berlin Zoo, Vienna Westbahnhof, Munich Hauptbahnhof. I am thrilled by the new Lehrter Hauptbahnhof but chilled by it at the same time. The new Potsdamer Platz just chills me. I wish they had used old photographs and rebuilt it as it was in the 1930s as exactly as they possibly could, and rebuilt the Romanisches Café while they were about it. How can other people understand this opium that I am addicted to? I seem to them to come from another planet. With their lack of imagination all they can think of is that I must be gay. My love of isolation is an overpowering, devouring monster that consumes all in its path. I am a black hole spinning through the universe sucking up everything in its vicinity. I suck all life and joy from a room and replace it with my black morbidity. I morbidly spend all my money on butterflies and sex dancers, while ogling the barmaids.
January 4, 2017 §
For me the only travelling that is worth anything is travelling alone; which makes things difficult for those in a relationship. Only in the loneliness and the silence do your thoughts come out like bats at night. If you are with someone the noise of your constant chatter scares your thoughts away and they remain out of sight in the shadows, unknown. Like a firefly they live for such a short time, glimmer so brightly then expire, and are gone forever. You must be ready to harvest them at a second’s notice, without delay, lest a single one be lost. Because my thoughts seem so valuable! When I am gone I expect they will build libraries just filled with my writings; all my original notebooks and manuscripts will be pored over by philologists of the future.
September 22, 2016 §
To write I have to be in extremis. In intense solitude, loneliness, despair, isolation. That is why I keep travelling. I am piling up a mountain of debt, dancing on the volcano, by continuing to go back to Berlin and Vienna, time after time. I am loading —– and me with such a financial timebomb. I miss feeling like a sexual instrument, a finely tuned violin, my strings quivering at every slightest erotic stimulus. Every breath of wind made me quiver with lustful pleasure. Reading Lotta, I remember how much I fell in love with her. An 18 year old Swedish blonde girl, with big breasts. I wanted her so much. Amazing to think that was nine years ago, and she is now 27, probably married with kids. Just ships that passed in the night. Writing is my life. As are —–, and strippers. “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” I was alive then, but in such pain and despair. I am calm and content now, but feel less alive.
September 10, 2016 §
As the train arrows its way out of London, I do get a strong feeling that this is what I want to be doing, and what I want to be doing for the rest of my life. Constantly travelling is what my life must be; not living in a marriage. It is only the depth of my love for —– that has delayed me making this break. Yes, this is what I want to do: travelling into emptiness, travelling into nothingness, travelling into solitude and anomie.
September 2, 2016 §
When you have nothing, a little thing becomes everything. However, when you have something, a little thing seems like nothing. How I miss the great days—that massive black Congolese cock in Brussels hotel toilet, the massive breasts of Martina in Nuremberg, epic amazing nights. This is the crux of my problem, and why I cannot enjoy the double life now. For it to be worthwhile, the old life has got to offer something extraordinary, and it never does, and perhaps never did. Only when you have nothing does everything in the gutter glitter like gold. Don’t I want the freedom of being free again? The cold icy air of total loneliness, total solitude, total despair? Maybe we should try it for a while—a trial separation. The trouble is I think I want to be the lonely old man staring into a pint in the pub every day. That has always seemed attractive to me. While creating my body of work that no one will ever read. Journals 1996-2007, and the others that follow.
June 8, 2016 §
For me writing is a thing of coldness, iciness, hardness, darkness, despair and solitude. I can only write as if I am still alone; sometimes, disturbingly, I wonder if I would not be better off if I was alone again, just so I could write like I used to. But that is madness. I wrote about my decades of loneliness, that has been done. I must write about my new reality now. Perhaps that means I must find a double life, in order to have something to write about—for having something to write about seems to me the only point of life.