“No, that would not be possible. Either I shall be unhappy in the same way as everyone else is, or I shall not be unhappy at all. I want to be exactly like everyone else and I shall go on trying as much as I can. I want to find out for myself if life is terrible. I shall die as I mean to and someone will care. But let’s forget all that. Please tell me more of how you felt in that town.”
“I am afraid I will tell it badly. I had no sleep and yet I was not tired.”
“And. . . .”
“I did not eat and I wasn’t hungry.”
“And then. . . .”
“All the minor problems of my life seemed to evaporate as if they had never existed except in my imagination. I thought of them as belonging to a distant past and laughed at them.”
“But surely you must have wanted to eat and sleep in the end? It would have been impossible for you to go on without feeling tired or hungry.”
“I expect so, but I didn’t stay long enough there for those feelings to come back to me.”
“And were you very tired when they did come back?”
“I slept for a whole day in a wood by the roadside.”
“Like a tramp?”
“Yes, just like a tramp with my suitcase beside me.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you can, yet.”
“I mean I am trying to understand and one day I will. One day I shall understand what you have been saying to me completely. After all, anybody could, couldn’t they?”
“Yes. I think one day you will understand them as completely as possible.”
“Ah, if only you knew how difficult the things I was telling you about can be. How difficult it is to get for yourself, completely by yourself, just the things which are common to everyone. I think I really mean how hard it is to fight the apathy which comes from wanting jus: the ordinary things which everyone else seems to have.”
“I expect it is just that which prevents so many people from trying to achieve them. I admire you for being as you are.”
“Ah, if only will power were enough! There have been men who found me attractive from time to time, but so far none of them has asked me to be his wife. There is a great difference between liking a young girl and wanting to marry her. And yet that must happen to me. Just once in my life I must be taken seriously. I wanted to ask you something: if you want a thing all the time, at every single moment of the day and night, do you think that you necessarily get it?”
“Not necessarily, no. But it still remains the best way of trying and the one with the greatest chance of success. I can really see no other way.”
“After all, we’re only talking. And as you don’t know me or I you, you can tell me the truth.”
“Yes, that’s quite true, but really and truly I can see no other way. But perhaps I haven’t had enough experience to answer your question properly.”
“Because I once heard that quite the opposite was true. That it was by trying not to want something that it finally happened.”
“But tell me, how could you manage not to want something, when you want it so much?”
“That is exactly what I say to myself, and to tell you the truth I never felt that the other was a very serious idea. I think it must apply to people who want little things, to people who already have something and want something else, but not to people like us—I didn’t mean that, I mean not to people like me who want everything, not just a part of something but . . .I don’t know how to say it. . . .”
“A whole.”
“Perhaps it is that. But please tell me more about your feelings for children. You said you were fond of them?”
“Yes. Sometimes when I have no one else to talk to I talk to them. But you know how it is, one can’t really talk to children.”
“Oh, you’re right. We are the lowest of the low.”
“But you mustn’t think either that I am unhappy simply because sometimes I need to talk so badly that I talk to children. That’s not true, because after all I must in some way have chosen my life or else I am just a madman indulging in his folly.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean what I said. I simply saw the fine weather and the words came out of their own accord. You must try to understand and not mind, because sometimes fine weather makes me doubt everything: but it never lasts for more than a few seconds. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. When I sit in Squares like this it is generally because I have been for some days without talking: when there have been no opportunities for conversation except with the people who buy my goods and they have been so rushed or standoffish that I could say nothing to them except the things that go with the sale of a reel of cotton. Naturally you mind this after some time and suddenly you want to talk and be listened to so badly that it can even produce a feeling of illness like a slight fever.”
“I know how you feel. You feel you could do without everything else, without eating, sleeping, anything rather than be silent. But in that town you were telling me about you didn’t have to talk to children?”
“Not in that town, no. I was not with children then.”
“That is what I thought.”
“I used to see them in the distance. There were lots of them in the streets: they are left very free there and from about the age of the one you look after they cross the whole town on their own to visit the Zoo. They eat at any hour and sleep in the shadow of the lions’ cages. Yes, I saw them in the distance sleeping in the shadow of those cages.”
“Children have all the time in the world and they’ll talk to anyone and always be ready to listen, but one hasn’t very much to say to them.”
“That’s the trouble. It’s true they don’t despise solitary people: in fact they like almost anyone, but then, as you said, there is so little to say to them.”
“But tell me more.”
“Oh, as far as children go one person is as good as another, provided they talk about airplanes and trains. There is never any difficulty in talking to children about that sort of thing. It can become a little monotonous, but that’s how it is.”
“They can’t understand other things, unhappiness for example, and I don’t think it does much good to mention them.”
“If you talk to them of things that don’t interest them they simply stop listening and wander off.”
“Sometimes I have conversations on my own.”
“That has happened to me too.”
“I don’t mean I talk to myself. I speak to a completely imaginary person, not just anybody, but to my worst enemy. You see, although I haven’t any friends yet, I invent enemies.”
“And what do you say to them?”
“I insult them: and always without the slightest explanation. Why do I do this?”
“Who knows? Probably because an enemy never understands one and I think you would be hard put to it to accept being understood and to give in to the particular comfort it brings.”
“After all, my insults are a form of talking aren’t they? And I never mention my work.”
“Yes, it is talking; and since no one hears you and it gives you some satisfaction it seems better to go on.”
“When I spoke of the unhappiness