Ken Morrill

I think I can fairly blame Helena for seducing me to dream of lazy sunny days at Kibbutzim and adventures by the Dead Sea–strolling to work in London–the beach at Camburi–Her life which had been great, and mine not fully lived–I slept with her and was her man and we smoked clove and took long walks. Two years ago were our best days–in Roger Bill. I dread and hate what she is now though–I couldn’t cause her enough pain to make up for what she’s caused me. She did the last mean thing to me sitting with Aquilles in my back seat–and not with me, like she knew I wanted more than anything then. And on my birthday I avoided her. She said she wanted to do something with me. I am a [louse?]. I couldn’t put it together. It required too much, and what’s more, I wasn’t wanted. My assistance wasn’t requested. I was stupid to be there. I’ve done a lot to abstract Brazil as though it had nothing to do with Helena–and it sure is true that the Brazil I had heard about from both Helena & Marcos was not found by me–

These are regrets and complaints. I have no alternatives to what has happened. They’ve composed me. But I do long for sympathy–and love–from those very people–Helena & Marcos–for me, Ken–a guy now far away from them–when they flirted with America. For Helena to see each person is a remarkable mystery–love and sympathy for strangers. But what is there for me, as I am now?

As I am now, nothing. Just some vaguely-expressed concern perhaps–I want you to succeed–”it’s good that you got into English Graduate School”– When I think of all the words I said–still I did not say enough–I did not get it across–put it or keep it together. Either she thought I was kidding or despised me in the end–or I was a fool all along with that talk of a long future together. She “knew” it would all change–that it would be difficult living apart–that we would drift apart.

I was dreamy all those years–It would end much sooner than I thought. We shook hands and parted across the distance deeper than despair.

She must be in some kind of inward phase now–
she said she was all dread before I came along–
We walked by the River that day in the cemetery
And she spoke of her wonderful mother as we sank in the leaves
I thought she might be deep and difficult to handle

Neither heart nor hand can cross that distance–
I am not he who knows how to get her love for me in an active way again–
Her tears are too hot–she sent me away crying
After a pretty long drive to the airport.

Journal

This weekend I will write a paper for sure - the Victorian paper for Margaret Stetz regardless of the order with which I should finish these courses - because I am currently full of words and ideas - I just don’t have a single thesis to pursue, but I want to have one and more than that I want to write, more than that and most importantly.

Selecting a topic is as always the first major obstacle to writing a paper. Prose writing seminars and booklets, writer’s workshops - all these guides and helps, but where is the program for Ode on a Nightingale, who followed instructions for it. Spontaneous as thought is and free we while away the hours we are given. It doesn’t matter. The question is to rework Pater material or start anew with another. Well I’m sick of Pater but that may not matter. I’m fond of Symonds but does that make him the best to work with. TRAVEL WRITING - that is the topic I finally want to write my masters thesis on, so wouldn’t it be wise to start now and kill two birds with one stone?

I am certainly not pleased with myself as a writer - I could do a lot more, if I could and I think I should gain a balance, a steady sense of peace sitting in my own room writing. More writing - and writing the papers which are due and overdue, expected. What would I be with them all done, I sometimes wonder. Maybe I can push an exam ahead to leave early, but most likely I’ll be trying to push a paper extension at that time though I don’t want to.

If I

I will write paragraphs for any of the four papers - outlines - anything I can - and build up growing files on them, alternating as I get tired with one and utilizing cross-fertilization.

Marvell’s Garden - what are the disputes? do I have another reading for it / what do I want to do besides admire it - should I make lists of what I think is especially effective in it? Can I, I want to, sit for a long time doing what I’m doing now. If I keep my fingers [livmer] I can write forever. Lit Crit, Crit theory - that paper will be - Wilde or Pater ——-Pater’s critical approach criticized or affirmed, my own approach in his terms. Wilde’s essay on lying - contradicts what I believe. No. Just use his general principles to develop my own coherent critical approach. How can we salvage or justify Wilde, in the context of Kant? no. In the context of Marxist criticism perhaps, or just how useful is Wilde - what [worklsd] approach does his stance imply, require? And Pater too. Or just Wilde.

Journal

Today I rose early to read Ben Jonson’s poems and I did in Bowers Library but in the middle of a lecture on Freud I snuck out the back door and ran to the French film festival–now I’ve seen four, and there is one more to go today–I’m starting to want to learn French–and also am learning not to worry about Europe being something inaccessible and incomprehensible. I’m tired of girls now in general though I think of love and a few intensities–like with Oui. I see a future with much travel in the distance–and I notice improvement in my development.

I surprised myself with what I thought then was an uncommon attitude. But it’s all the same; you can’t win in Paris anymore. The days of the gladiators are over. Of course it’s the same. We are born from that slit that Marie showed us and those days which seemed to stretch forever into rich meaning are now vain fantasies, idly remembered. I showed you rocks and trees; the sky was out and clouds were drifting overhead. I knew then it would end; I even said it. Marie, Rosemarie, mon cheri, come back to me. But that will never be; can never be, except in other lovers in the spring, and in my memory’s memories for me.

I liked the South of France; the sky was wonderful and so was the sea. Never again will there be such days as those were then; and yet I have hope for the future, for the present now which someday I’ll also fondly remember in one of those intervals between great times.

Journal

“The past glows with a sunset flush of poetry. The future is cold with sad features sharply defined. But the past fades into indistinctness, while the future broadens into perfect clarity of day” (J.A. Symonds, “Clifton and a Lad’s Love”).

Talked with Melissa. She was happy to see me today (in Pavilion XI). I said she looked good. Her hair was turning blonde with the sun. She rightly assumed that I stayed here working during Spring Break. She was undaunted by Oui. I said: “Red Shoes”–(before we got on the bus) “This is the first time I see you in red–you usually where blue and darker colors.” She replied, very pleased, that maybe I was right. She thought law school a great idea–for her too–she seemed amazed–she was about to say something–she intimated that we were on some same wavelength–both deciding at nearly the same time. She stayed on in Pav. the whole time while Dave, Oui, and I were out eating, talking, and laughing.

Journal

Get “Sketches in Italy and Greece” by Symonds.

It is hard to know what I want, underground in Virginia in March, after a full day of bookstore work. I can’t clutch a pen like I used to be able–it becomes quite an effort–to write even a single line. a headache ensues. I am nearly blind as far as reading & writing goes–without lenses. I feel that I have come to certain dead ends and writing is no longer a necessity or a pleasure.

I’m in a horribly tense, paralyzed mood–my days go well at the bookstore–and I have my health–but I think I have no center at the moment–from which to write with integrity. STill, I want to insist on being a writer–and therefore force the pen across the frictioned page. Listening to a Mozart quartet & waiting to put on one by Beethoven–

I just read more letters by Symonds. I can’t see people now–last night I got too irritated with Oui–unexplainable but something in me doesn’t want to be with her, doesn’t trust her. When I am not writing I can too-easily scorn it and give up on it–that is, give up on myself and my dreams. to be a great writer.

Now I am letting Beethoven work on me, that grand, benevolent doctor–venerable master of the muses, even though deaf, as Homer saw, even when blind. I cross the wine-dark sea, the fern-scented frontier, to arrive at the other side of spring, in a new mood and better off than before.

Still I have my travelling dreams–to go to Italy and suckle the teats of beauty directly from the paintings & architecture–seascapes and city views—-

Of course I realize there are effects to be gotten here in the town where I am–but I have the restless urge to move on–to travel into the distances of which I’ve dreamt.

To sacrifice my integrity or to remember
the divinity of the passing day–
Oui as prostitute, anger on the street–

My soul nestling in conviction of beautiful eternity.

Natures such as Beethoven’s were so rich that they plumed forth in a natural abundance, like pine trees by the sea.

I must get my blood checked soon.

There not so much those intimate, tense, power struggles in my dreams as there used to be when I was closer to home.

Now I think I need to derive a wholly new set of ambitions.

–unlaced with the pressures I used to bear–

The most interesting road to self-development & self-realization seems to me now to be in reading & writing, in walking & talking & seeing–

The kinds of questions that are best asked are those most willingly & self-forgetfully answered. About art or ambition–

If I become a genius–that is–if I catch on to something.

The Nietzsche I read 2 days ago is still sitting in my blood digesting–That is part of the reason my head is dark & inconclusive.

There is something good for me in listening to this music.

I could write essays maybe, and I must already, write about S–to leave successful this year–

I will–I will, but not right now, please–I just don’t feel like it–

I don’t believe in lit crit, and I’m poor–and things have gone wrong in my emotions with Hongtao and with Oui–Things will not be the same–as they once were–

Journal

I see my father there, across the way, surveying. Beginning like me in the world, setting out, tentative and unsure but enjoying the spring air. And I am myself, sitting with a notebook. Mainly there is the day for both of us–what we do in our free time, and ideas of love. Her temporary smile–the black Southern waitress, big, with big breasts, and this ice-cream which I can’t consume, a prostitute on main street going up to 2 different guys in an hour–the prostitute I once served in Marois–who red-haired & big-breasted turned me on & angered her John. A great letter from Dave, and a bunch of records from the public library.

Did I really hear 3 explosions and murmuring voices out the window last night? What could I do - my mind awake - my body sleeping - not knowing the difference twixt the real and the fantastic.– –To be informed by many rhythms, styles, to be drenched in words - requires an abundance of courteous reading, the installation of courteous words.– –Let’s be good readers always!–

I look forward to the day when I will write my own essays, and not only read, and I would like to read Nietzsche’s secret notes of doubt, as this certainly is, not knowing for sure if I will succeed. I want all art, and I see all art, as at my disposal — This is what I am accomplishing, and it will make me a great writer.–

[05 Sep 91 Thu 15:47: this last paragraph may belong to 05 Apr 86 Sat when the first paragraph was transcribed]

Journal