Death of Hyacinth

Let us call him Henry. No. David. David.

I have always believed in the law of attraction, of those things that they teach you in The Secret . . . that if you think something enough, if will happen. Positive mental energy. The universe as your God. That sort of thing. Yes, I believe if I will it enough to happen, David will wake up one morning as a homosexual, come on to me on our next meeting (who knows when that will be), and we will embrace as we will always have been meant. That is the world I believe will come to pass eventually. Over time, his relationship with his foolish woman will come to pass as a mere mistake, and I, the obvious greater of two persons, will be seen as the rescuer of his repressed sexuality. O yes, I, the great and developed __________ will become his lover, and lovers we will be.

Great, isn't it?

Today I purchased more Hollinghurst and some Kafka. I've always disdained Kafka but today, I chose him to join the others in my room, and together, I have created quite the intellectual storage house of literature. Now all I need is someone to read with, for a lonely bed brings to sleep the one who reads. Haven't you ever seen The Reader? I would imagine sex is 10x better when after reading some Pynchon.

Yes, I am quite melancholy and suicidal tonight. No, I will never kill myself. I am not that despondent. My body won't let me do that. It will just keep torturing me with lonely masturbatory activities at 3 in the morning after reading A Wrinkle in Time. The life of the Reader/Writer is indeed a tragic one. No wonder so many smoked, drank, killed themselves, etc. O Sylvia, I feel your pain.

I need to read more Rilke, Nabokov, and Capote before my life is over, however. When I finally finish Wallace's Infinite Jest that has been sitting like the Bible on my bookshelf for over nine months, then I will be ready to die. Until then, call me Jude.