Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

November 1, 1951


The dream is always the same: I’m sitting on a boat train floating into Paris, gazing at the little red rooftops and the old men along the shore, dinking wine, laughing and arguing, and dancing together with expressions of pure joy. Sometimes I’m flying from Marseilles, free without a plane, wishing only to be with my lover and my cat beside a blazing fire and a book.

Then I wake from this dream looking up at the ceiling in utter excitement: “I’m finally here…I’ve finally made it!”

I roll out of bed and start a small fire to warm our tiny bungalow. She is asleep. After drinking my first cup of strong coffee, I sit down at my little desk and resume writing the tale already in progress. Looking out my small window, the winter light of the Paris morning is beautiful, despite the dark clouds and the patter of rain upon the sea of multi-shaded roof tops extending over the Latin Quarter and beyond. Below my window I hear the shop keepers opening their doors for the day’s trade. Along the gravel paths, too, young Parisian girls are riding to school on their bicycles, ringing their bells” “Bon jour, Bon jour” - Ting-Ting Ting-Ting.

After writing for some hours, the clouds dissipate and my friend is still asleep due to too much wine and conversation and love. Completing the day’s work, I walk down the winding staircase outside onto our narrow street. The air is crisp and pungent with the smells of fresh bread. Sitting at my usual table at the “Rue de Fleurus”, I order an old red wine and notice a beautiful woman at a table in the corner, writing frantically, like the fate of her soul depended on its completion. A strange looking little man joins her and her eye’s sparkle with joy. As my French is poor, they speak very quickly and I only here certain words, names of philosopher’s, I believe: Husserl, Kierkegaard, and Heidegger. Finishing my wine, I leave the beautiful writer and her little friend with the wandering eye to their soft debate.

‘Is she still sleeping, I wonder.’

Climbing the stairs to our little home, I open the door to find her sitting by the fire, wrapped in her red dressing gown and a woollen scarf around her shoulders. She is reading my morning’s writing.

“This very strange, and at the same time very beautiful.” she whispers.

“It isn’t finished.”

“You don’t have to finish it. It is beautiful just the way it is.”

Our old cat yawns, stretches and jumps on her lap. The three of us stare into the fire as day turns to night.