November 9th
—Less and less to write, to say, except this (which I can tell no one).
Now, everywhere, in the street, the café, I see each individual under the aspect of ineluctably having-to-die, which is exactly what it means to be mortal.—And, no less obviously, I see them as not knowing this to be so.
November 28th
To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)?
Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought . . . ?