by Sheila Heti
Apr: Around nine, was biking home and a wonderful primitive fantasy—the trees, tall, dark, windy, mysterious—just wish to go among them forever, and leave the natural light, close to the earth; and what is more, in the deepest, darkest, windiest depths of the wood, lying with some sweet creature in my arms—my lover. No physical desire for sex—just spiritual desire—imagine sex would be tremendously exciting, an adventure of the spirit.
July: Wouldn’t mind knowing Dennis (at the University Library) off-duty. Like his lean body in the white shirt & braces; he is both straight and not straight—often automatically jerks himself straight when he feels himself beginning to slump. Like his grey hair, and the absurdly boyish shape of his head, & his little reddish-tinged moustache. Like his nose, upturned as my sweet darling little E’s. Nice round blue eyes—kind & honest. Like his white hands with one golden ring on a finger.
Later: Learnt that Dennis is very keen on collecting butterflies—how absolutely deadly.
July 8th: Pasternak—what a striking face, his eyes on fire, his chin jutting, his head up proudly, his mouth bitter. Tremendous intellectual powers, colossal fantasy—would I be a writer like that! Wish my day would come to receive the Nobel Prize! The Nobel Prize would give me a straight back more than any posture exercises!
July 9th: About half way through Dr. Zhivago & find this controversial work of genius boring.
July 12th: Still reading Dr. Zhivago.
July 15th: Nearly finished Dr. Zhivago.
July 17th: Finished Dr. Zhivago—got something out of it, but it is vast—train journeys that last for weeks.
E back from Switzerland: we went out into the cool evening sunshine. E strangely real, strangely unreal. The sun picked out every detail—her good knobbly hands, and the strong sensible nails—do so like them—quite without feminine silliness—strong, square-cut & plain. Her lovely little face as wonderful as ever with deep expressive eyes and sherbet eyebrows & wide curving mouth. E laid her hand on mine, and talked of the Loch Ness monster.
Various dates, 1959:
E said I’m very small, not interested in the world.
E said she didn’t believe in any of my so-called gifts, not even writing.
E said I am stupid.
E said my song-capacity nothing, just a manifestation of the sexual impulse, like the singing of the birds.
July 23rd: Sat with the flickering lights in the leaves of the trees playing in the hall, and thought thoughts that weren’t thoughts.
Aug: Called in at E’s. She had on a negligee dress. She had no lipstick, so as I like her. Love her best without lipstick, when her mouth is wide and simple.
Aug: A desperate need for E; if E would have nothing more to do with me, I’d have nothing more to live for—would go “off my rocker,” or commit suicide. Almost feel I HATE E.
A SHORT, TERSE TALE. A WEEK IN AUGUST, 1959
Saturday, Aug 1st: Idea for a short story—a short terse tale, written in a mood of both excitement and anger and illustrate an idea. The tale of the man I described in my letter to E that I wrote from Wales; the cherry-lipped man, a man on the earth who lives between sea and sky.
This man is very happy, has known nothing all his life but the Welsh countryside. Lives in a little white house perched on the hillside with a bucket toilet, his family. He is a poet-labourer, a sort of pantheist.
Circumstances change. This man has to find work elsewhere. Goes to a factory in town to earn money for his wife and son. Town life and factory devastates this man’s soul—he can no longer write poetry. Returns to his house to find it deserted. In his despair, he stepped deliberately over the cliff into nothingness and the boiling Atlantic below.
It is to be a short story, written in defiance to the doctrines of E.
Various dates in 1959–60:
E said I must work, work, work.
E said if one really has a gift for writing, can’t stop.
E said weak animals and birds die. Weak humans pushed from thing to thing.
E said I am a weakling.
E said I am nothing. Nothing in me, so slack and lazy.
E said she’s glad she’s not my parents. She said I am throwing my life away.
Aug 2nd: E wouldn’t have me read the story to her, so I left her the script.
Aug 3rd: If E praises it, oh, what joy!
Aug 4th: E said the story completely illogical, lacking in any sense, incomprehensible. E said she found about every sentence without thought.
SO MAD ONE, MUST BE A HOMOSEXUAL? 1960
June 6th: Still so mad on E, must be a homosexual? But, don’t find any other women affect me in that way, except the nice person in the Nun’s Story film, who was the reverend mother of the nunnery in the Congo.
June 8th: E said I’m a weakling, and she’s glad she’s not my parents.
June 10th: Saw the film The Trials of Oscar Wilde. Such films a great solace to me; I like to see the grief of others.
Lovely scene in a boarding-house bedroom at Brighton in the film. The writer had gone there to get away from everything & write. Saw him walking along by the sea, obviously full of fire for his new work The Importance of Being Earnest. He had been out all night, returned, amidst the rain and the leaves whirling round. He caught a chill, & had to go to bed. He made such a fuss over the chill. Then the young man whom he had a “crush” on (to use modern terms) came to the boarding house. The young man came into the room, where Oscar was lying in bed, his hand over his face as he lay on his side. He wasn’t pleased to see the young man (“Bosie”), & kept making an awful fuss over his ’flu, nearly in tears, and searching for his hanky to sneeze into. Suppose E would say he was a “weakling.” He told Bosie their friendship must end; & Bosie very conceited. He flung open the window, & set the precious script blowing in all directions & Oscar jumped out of bed to save it, fussing & snivelling. He buried his head on his arms & wept, & the young man taunted him, to see him snivelling there & said he was a bore. It was a terrible quarrel, & suddenly Bosie snatched up a bread-knife and threatened Oscar with it; but Bosie didn’t strike; then he suddenly started laughing hysterically, & went on laughing & laughing, and the scene ended most dramatically, with Bosie taking his tempestuous leave, whilst poor Oscar wept and wept. Bosie, with a last contemptuous glare, went out of the door. Then, the poet threw himself on his back across the bed, still crying, holding his handkerchief to his face.
It was thrilling, erotic, most beautiful, especially to see a man of mature years in such a vulnerable position as to be taunted to tears by one he loves, a mere youngster.
June 10th (later): I see how I could love a man, when I see that they can cry.
June 11th: On more or less an impulse picked flowers, and rushed off on the bus to E. Didn’t mean to go in and see her; just wanted to hand her the flowers, look upon her sweet face and go. Half-expected E would repulse me.
However, nothing of the sort happened. We sat in the chairs near the window. Then followed a wonderful conversation.
I asked E if she ever got unpleasant feeling if alone on a country walk—& E said, very strongly so, especially if she meets another person, she feels afraid; once when E saw someone coming towards her, she turned, & went back. That amazed & thrilled me—fancy E of all people, of such courage & nobility, having such a weakness, the same unwarranted feeling I would get in the circumstance. I could hardly hide my joy and exaltation over having E being so sweet to me, & saying such lovely things. Felt the happiest girl in the world. What is more, E’s beauty acted like a flame on me; adored her, with her wonderful eyes, curly hair, flower-delicate face, and black gown. Felt all the more thrilled as this mingled in my mind with the film of Oscar—“posing as a sodomite.”
June 11th: I adored E madly, and liked myself, too.
THERE IS NO MORE NEWS OF CHARLES DI, 1981 (TWENTY-ONE YEARS LATER)
Aug 3rd: There is no more news of Charles & Di. Read that she did some hoovering on the plane.
Aug 3rd: “Charles &
Di,” the couple I feel I know almost like neighbours. The wedding was a thing of great beauty and refinement, & seemed to have the most universal appeal. Mozart would have liked it, written lovely music for it, and coarse common people like it, because it was a wonderful show, & sentimental. Tolstoy would have written about it so well.
Aug 3rd: Thinking how happy they must feel now, on their honeymoon; feel sure they are enjoying it very much.
Aug 3rd: Am curious as to how much good the cruise will do them, though of course it should do them a lot of good, it is a rest, & lovely weather all the time.
Aug 3rd: Don’t expect to be worshipped by a man, such as Di, but would like a little admiration.
Aug 4th (bedtime): Can imagine Charles is not a very good lover.
Aug 4th (bedtime): Should think Di is sensible enough not to be too disappointed.
Aug 6th: Charles & Di’s wedding presents, & her dress, go on show at St. James Palace tomorrow. They have been given three pianos.
Aug 6th: Find this rather the limit, they already have everything. They never will have the technique to play those pianos. The ship is reported to be somewhere near Sardinia.
Aug 7th: Phoned for more cider.
Aug 12th: Think holidays can be over-rated.
Aug 13th (small hours): Wish E had lived long enough to know about Di.
Aug 17th (bedtime): Seem, since E’s death, to be the only rootless person I know.
FEEL VERY SADDENED BY CLOTHES, 1974–77
1977: Feel very saddened by clothes.
May 10th, 1974: Got brick-coloured working trousers from M&S yesterday, which are passable, but perhaps I should change them for a large size, in case they shrink when washed.
May 10th: Today, bought M&S cotton ones in a sort of gun-metal colour, but I am not sure if they are nice.
May 11th: Bought myself another pair of trousers from M&S. Feel vexed that I can never get quite what I want; want the dark brown denim ones in size 18. Today got a navy-blue pair with white stripes, “French cut.” Rather a risk. I don’t like to ask E. She thinks I’ve got too many trousers already.
May 13th: Monday, & the shops open again. Still not the right trousers in M&S.
May 15th: Swoot [my sister] didn’t like my new striped trousers. I don’t suppose E will like them either, & I’ll have to take them back.
May 16th: Went into town as usual in the p.m. Managed to get the red-brown trousers in size 18, so must take the size 16 ones back. Undecided about the striped trousers.
June 1st: Tried on all my trousers this evening, trying to decide which to wear for better, & which for everyday. Almost feel in tears with frustration & vexation over the clothes—not being able to find things I like. Not even got the corset organised yet, or know where I can get long enough stockings. And I do so long to look nice!
June 3rd: Took back the white M&S trousers, got two crimplene ones in navy blue & dark green.
June 13th: Sick of my blue working trousers with a belt already—they refuse even to get dirty, so I can’t wash them to see if they shrink to the right size.
June 14th: Bought a different kind of M&S trousers today, more expensive—but they are still no good.
June 15th: Took back yesterday’s pair, and got three more pairs to try. Got a pale green pair despite myself. They are cheerful, for summer. Got a white pair too. Got another gun-metal pair. Intend to take both pairs back in that colour. Think I’ll keep the cheap crimplene pairs for working in the house, & bicycling.
June 17th: E vetoed the white trousers, & the green ones yesterday. Really none are any good. Can’t take them all back at once.
June 18th: Wore the beige skirt Puddin’ had made me, and I thought Peter looked at it rather approvingly. I wonder if in fact he doesn’t like me in trousers. Prefers me to look like a girl. If that is the case, then I am off trousers.
June 18th: Took back the four trousers to M&S in the afternoon—it a long drawn-out ordeal, of endless waiting about; & I didn’t get my money back (£17)—they said they’ll post it. The whole thing a punishment for my stupidity over trousers.
June 21st: Changed the crimplene M&S trousers for a size 18 pair, in brown. Think I’ll keep them, and the green ones. Like the sky blue pair, but afraid they are too loud.
June 29th: Dreamt the night before last that I was going to marry Peter. I woke up feeling warm and happy. The dream gave me some hope. E dreamt of me marrying him, too. Wonder if he himself has dreamt it yet? I am not in love with him at all, but that probably doesn’t matter.
Three weeks later: Went to M&S to enquire re the £17 they owe me.
July 12th: Went all the way to Mill Road to try “Barney’s Superstores” whose sale has been much advertised in the local press. It an exciting-looking sale, but proved entirely disappointing. Tried some jeans in a nice soft material, but the fit bad. The store a lower-class one.
Ten days later: Still not got my £17 back—gnash.
1977: My lovely clothes cheer me a little; that I never wear them is beside the point.
I AM UNDER MUCH MORE STRESS THAN THE QUEEN, 1974–1977
1977: I am under much more stress than the Queen.
1977: The Queen not burdened with an Elf.
Three years earlier:
May 19th, 1974: And it does seem disloyal to E, as these feelings rightly belong to her. But due to E running me down so often, belittling me and making me feel a fool, my feelings for her have cooled rather.
Did the watering, and I put my arm in Elf’s for the walk back through the garden. My love for her made me feel thrilled and excited. My mind not really on the plants, and I forgot to turn the tap of the hose off this evening . . . she herself reminded me.
May 19th: Dreamt about getting into a swimming bath with Elf, and woke feeling very sexually aroused.
May 19th: Felt v. thrilled to be re-united with her; aware of a disturbing depth and strength of love for her. Do love her so very much.
DATE? Wish I could love her less. I feel quite ashamed of myself. Of course worry about my health and ability to cope, in view of being in charge of something so precious. My little love, my little jewel, my little flower. She is 99.
May 28th: Things have gone from bad to worse—quarrelled with E on the phone. E really noticing now the lessening of my love, and beginning to complain of its manifestations. E obviously wondering why it is, and I even don’t know myself, only her beastly criticisms have a certain amount to do with it. One can hardly be fond of someone who makes one feel like a crushed worm.
June 29th: Feel in duty bound to stay until Elf has her hundredth birthday.
Jan 6th, 1976: The little darling old woman’s 101st birthday—to my surprise, hardly anyone noticed it, after last year’s great palaver of telegrams and flowers.
Jan 6th, 1977: Elf’s 102nd birthday, what an achievement, yet all the same, I groan inwardly.
June 7th: Elf is a terminal case.
June 7th: Depressing for anybody who has anything to do with her. Taking her to the lavatory, her incontinence, all the washing. This strain has been going on for months. Yet E said, Elf may not wish to die!
June 27th: Elf just got us up, with some complaint about constipation.
c. 3 a.m.: Elf clutching the bedclothes, which I gather is a sign of approaching death.
c. 3 a.m.: Her eyes staring & frightened.
4 a.m.: Light, birds, & traffic start. Elf sleeping now, but breathing fast.
c. 5 a.m.: Elf still sleeping.
c. 5.30 a.m.: Elf becoming restless again, & obviously beginning to surface to pain.
June 28th: Anti-climax. Elf a bit better.
THE EVENING VIEW OVER THE FIELD FROM MY ROOM IS VERY BEAUTIFUL, BUT EXTRAORDINARILY ELFLESS, 1977
July 9th: My emotional pain is as constant and sharp as a knife. It seemed she didn’t die in her sleep. Had asked for breakfast, then suddenly died.
July 9th: A subdued lunch. I sought consolation in sugar, and had two helpings of the syrup steam pudding.
July 11th: My pain still worse this morning. A most beautiful picture of my lovely little Elf in the Times. Rushed out, and bought four Times. I would not let the newspaper girl touch the Times. The papers must be absolutely clean and sacred.
July 13th: Almost felt happy excitement, as I went up to put on my dress, because I was “going to see Elf.” The black car, which I had dreaded yesterday, also gave me a kind of keen, childish excitement at the occasion. Enjoyed the slow stately drive out into the country.
July 13th: After a short wait in our car in the drive of the crematorium, the hearse appeared. I had surprisingly a rather non-reaction to the coffin. It did not look touchingly small, like Aunt Maude’s did; just Elf’s size, & little Elf lay inside the yellow wood, with a pile of flowers on top. I wanted to touch it, as if touching Elf, but did not like to. Did not even know which was her feet end.
