William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice by William Styron Page A

seems, I’ve had these moments before, but never for so long—and they’re absolutely terrible. The trouble is that they don’t—these thoughts—seem to have any distinctness or real point of reference. It’s more like some sort of black, terrible mistiness like the beginning of a disease, the way you know you feel when you’re catching the flu. I try to fight against this feeling all the time but in it seeps, and I can’t do anything about it at all. Thinking of you helps some, thinking of home—but I don’t know, nothing seems to really help for long. I feel adrift, as if I were drowning out in dark space somewhere without anything to pull me back to earth again. You’d think that feeling would be nice—drowning like that—but it isn’t. It’s terrible. Then when I see the birds it seems [ something crossed out ]
    Oh, Daddy, I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve tried to grow up—to be a good little girl, as you would say, but everywhere I turn I seem to walk deeper and deeper into some terrible despair. What’s wrong, Daddy? What’s wrong? Why is happiness such a precious thing? What have we done with our lives so that everywhere we turn—no matter how hard we try not to—we cause other people sorrow?
    I’ve never talked to you like this, dearest. I don’t know why. I just want you to know these things. Please don’t be embarrassed.
    It’s true. We’ve all been so unkind. I’ve been so unkind to people. It’s [ something crossed out here. ] wings it
    (Later) I hate this city, Bunny. Everything is so false and brutal and ugly. But maybe that’s just me because I loved it so at first. The excitement, the students at the school—meeting Harry. He came back the other day to get some of his things. Everything was so terribly strained when he came in—I was in an absolute panic. I wondered—how could I have ever loved him? And yet I did love him once, I did very much. Wasn’t it maybe I who had been unkind, who broke us up after all? Yet I couldn’t admit it to myself at all—I just couldn’t. It was a hot day and I suppose we both felt badly so finally we exchanged words. I called him something horrible and banged out of the apt. When I came back later that evening he was gone and I could have died. Do I still love him, Daddy? Do I still love him? I don’t know. All I know is that something terrible is happening to me. Since I left the job I’ve been doing hardly anything, waking up late with the horrible hot noon sun in my face. I sit around and read and now and then I go for a walk. That’s about all. Isn’t it terrible, my telling you all these things? But I want you to know anyway.
    Sometimes I see Laura—you remember her. We all went to the Vanguard that night. She’s very tiresome, but I envy her somehow. Maybe that’s the key to happiness—being sort of dumb, not wanting to know any of the answers.
    I think of Maudie. Why did she have to die? Why do we have to die?
    Oh, I miss you so, Daddy! I wish I could see you, talk to you and have you say nice things to me. I wish I could come home. I wish it were possible. Oh, Daddy, I wish I could come home! The birds are haunting me beyond all belief. Such wingless——
    There was more but he read no further; it all became so crazy and confused. He placed the letter down gently, and gazed upward where a monstrous day-flying moth, crazed by light, whirled wildly around a dangling bulb.
    “What’s the matter, mister?” Hazel said. Loftis didn’t answer her. “What’s the matter, mister?” Hazel repeated. “Isn’t there something I can do?”
    He raised his eyes. “My daughter,” he said, with a look of hopeless appeal.
    “Why, you pore man,” said Hazel.
    Nothing now, he knew, could be changed at all. He put his head down on the counter and shut his eyes. Helen, come back to me.
    “Why, you pore man,” said Hazel.

2
    D OLLY B ONNER descended the steps from the station dock, sidling down cautiously as if she thought high