Paul here is unhappy because unhappiness is second nature to him but more particularly because he has not the… — J. M. Coetzee
Paul here is unhappy because unhappiness is second nature to him but more particularly because he has not the faintest idea of how to bring about his heart's desire. And I am unhappy because nothing is happening. Four people in four corners, moping, like tramps in Beckett, and myself in the middle, wasting time, being wasted by time.
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Our lies reveal as much about us as our truths.
But truth is not spoken in anger. Truth is spoken, if it ever comes to be spoken, in love.
Can desire grow out of admiration, or are the two quite distinct species? What would it be like to lie side by side, naked, breast to breast, with a woman one principally admires?
