Went to a dinner party last night with S and... there was a lot of good food. The friend of the host had... carefully prepared... fish, steak, lamb, pasta... eggplant. A few rounds of dessert. I drank the red wine I brought, just to help me digest. After dinner, there was a game of fishbowl, some guests went downstairs to get high, and then S and I walked home. After 20 blocks, and realizing the M72 had stopped running, we took a cab across the park.
This morning, S left early for work, and I woke up around 11am and started to write this diary.
My face was sunburned from playing football, and I felt self-conscious about it at the party. Somehow, I feel like my face doesn't know how to become the age that I am. It's still like a young man's face, except with... odd, incongruent... elements or touches of aging, which the sunburn brought out… It’s like someone's painting over, very slowly, an old canvas.
Gomborowicz complains in his diary that the Polish literature of the 1960s is full of “gab and more gab.” He writes that everything is “bursting with chitchat, bursting with blather, that he can't quote recognize any book born in silence.” All real art, Gomborowicz writes, is “aristocratic to the marrow like a prince of royal blood, is the refutation of equality and the adoration of the superior, is a matter of talent, even genius, or superiority, prominence, uniqueness, is also the harsh creation of a hierarchy of values, cruelty, in relation to that which is common, the selection and perfection of that which is rare and dispensable. It is finally nurturing of personality, originality, individuality.” 1
It's occurred to me that the kind of theater that I create hasn’t proceed a real critic.2