informed us that Eliot Janeway (whose wife Elizabeth had been in Detroit only a week ago—lunched with us—only a week ago?) had predicted in that morning’s paper a worse depression than that of the 30’s. Kay knows enough to believe him, the others of us accept it more or less on faith—yet don’t accept it, really, unable to absorb such mournful news—in any case unable to act upon it. Spoke of books, of writing, of mutual friends. Very enjoyable. Had taught my freshman class at eleven o’clock—dealing with the subtleties of “existentialism” in Kafka’s writing—if indeed he is “existentialist”—yet whoisn’t?—but the morning receded, grew distant. So much life, so much living—conversation—crammed into so little space!—just as, having written the books I have, having submerged myself into the consciousness of so many people, my own “life” has been drawn out to a remarkable extent: not one but many, many, and no end in sight. The imagination defeats not only the body’s ostensible limits, the psyche’s ostensible limits, but time itself. Our margin of divinity….
Fascinating, the discussion of parents/children. Two of us at lunch were without children; two with. What connections?—what responsibilities? Rare, the wisdom of a mother like Kay, who disclaims “credit” for her outstanding children—and thereby frees herself of necessary blame for one who might not turn out as well. Or might: who can predict? But it’s true, true, beyond a certain point we cannot take credit or feel guilt for one another, we must grant one another freedom, goodwill, grace, nothing more.
Friendship: more satisfying than romantic love. Though romantic love, if one is wise, can be transformed into friendship.
Returned to Windsor, 3:30, told by the departmental secretary that Ray has gone out with some friends—went to meet him at a local pub—the same place we had had lunch last week—only last week?—spent a loud cheerful newsy session with them—hoping that my presence—that is, my femininity—did not alter the occasion very much. The nuisance men must feel, when a woman approaches—that they must be more aware—“aware”—more socially sensitive. […] Ray rather lively, relieved to be free of the P & T committee meetings (Promotion and Tenure), the long week come to an end. Left reluctantly at six. Hours and hours of conversation, laughter, odd bouncy irreverence to both the luncheon and the pub session—a claim might well be made that the only valuable reality is with friends, with others, with relationships in which one’s individuality is practically extinguished.
Drove home, pleased to find a few subscriptions for Ontario Review , a nice notice in the NYTimes of The Goddess (by Marian Engel—perceptive and generous and wonderfully uncatty, in contrast to the Times ’ more characteristic reviewers: but they are mainly New Yorkers), * quite an assortment of letters. Now the day takes its toll, now we are both exhausted. No appetite for dinner. Unable to work at the novel, best simply to sit with one of the cats and finish the book I have been reading (one of those nice coincidences: Marian Engel’s The Honeyman Festival ). A day that seemed at least three days in duration, so much crammed into each hour. Surely every moment is a small eternity?—one feels the exhaustion of this curious “eternity,” slipping back into “time” at the end of the day.
November 23, 1974. Anniversary of our engagement. November 23, 1960. Met on October 23, at a graduate students’ coffee at Madison, Wisconsin; formally engaged a month later; married on January 23, 1961. The odd repetition of that number 23 in my life…. Meaningless, meaningful? Went to Syracuse University, arrived there on the 23 of September 1956 (an event of such psychic upheaval, can still remember the dazedness of it—and the half-melancholy, half-manic atmosphere of the freshman cottage I lived in);
Fascinating, the discussion of parents/children. Two of us at lunch were without children; two with. What connections?—what responsibilities? Rare, the wisdom of a mother like Kay, who disclaims “credit” for her outstanding children—and thereby frees herself of necessary blame for one who might not turn out as well. Or might: who can predict? But it’s true, true, beyond a certain point we cannot take credit or feel guilt for one another, we must grant one another freedom, goodwill, grace, nothing more.
Friendship: more satisfying than romantic love. Though romantic love, if one is wise, can be transformed into friendship.
Returned to Windsor, 3:30, told by the departmental secretary that Ray has gone out with some friends—went to meet him at a local pub—the same place we had had lunch last week—only last week?—spent a loud cheerful newsy session with them—hoping that my presence—that is, my femininity—did not alter the occasion very much. The nuisance men must feel, when a woman approaches—that they must be more aware—“aware”—more socially sensitive. […] Ray rather lively, relieved to be free of the P & T committee meetings (Promotion and Tenure), the long week come to an end. Left reluctantly at six. Hours and hours of conversation, laughter, odd bouncy irreverence to both the luncheon and the pub session—a claim might well be made that the only valuable reality is with friends, with others, with relationships in which one’s individuality is practically extinguished.
Drove home, pleased to find a few subscriptions for Ontario Review , a nice notice in the NYTimes of The Goddess (by Marian Engel—perceptive and generous and wonderfully uncatty, in contrast to the Times ’ more characteristic reviewers: but they are mainly New Yorkers), * quite an assortment of letters. Now the day takes its toll, now we are both exhausted. No appetite for dinner. Unable to work at the novel, best simply to sit with one of the cats and finish the book I have been reading (one of those nice coincidences: Marian Engel’s The Honeyman Festival ). A day that seemed at least three days in duration, so much crammed into each hour. Surely every moment is a small eternity?—one feels the exhaustion of this curious “eternity,” slipping back into “time” at the end of the day.
November 23, 1974. Anniversary of our engagement. November 23, 1960. Met on October 23, at a graduate students’ coffee at Madison, Wisconsin; formally engaged a month later; married on January 23, 1961. The odd repetition of that number 23 in my life…. Meaningless, meaningful? Went to Syracuse University, arrived there on the 23 of September 1956 (an event of such psychic upheaval, can still remember the dazedness of it—and the half-melancholy, half-manic atmosphere of the freshman cottage I lived in);
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