This page was entered from my paper diary on 13 April 2017.
So here I am, once again worried about women, about the only thing I find important enough
to write about any more, although that in itself might be something worth writing about.
Doris, with whom I spent a couple of weeks at the
end of the month, and in the process became more attached to than I expected, has been
in Denmark lately, writing passionate
letters bewailing her inability to write passionate letters, and telling he how I am the
only man for her, which I have heard somewhere before, and am not so dead certain to
believe.
Yesterday the tone was a little different, with news that a couple of Italian law students
were moving in to the same place where she and Ingrid are staying; today silence. Well,
what the hell. Here am I on the other side being a real bastard both to her and to poor
dear Mechtild, who loves me with an
all-consuming agony which, she claims, has woken her up at 5 am every day this year.
Oh, Mechtild, what have I done to you? I
think she's right, though, we're not suited to each other: but she's far too sweet and nice
a girl hurt the way I can't help hurting. I seem to myself more
like Guy Belsham every day, and I don't like it.
Oh God, I don't want to hurt anybody -
poor Mechtild. And, probably,
poor Doris - somehow I have the feeling on the
other hand, played off against my fears, that she still is faithful to me, and will also be
hurt. Oh Christ - why should all this be so difficult?
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