Madrid, April, 1952.

Mavis Gallant’s diary excerpts, published in The New Yorker, are making me want to a) read Mavis Gallant, and b) keep a diary. 

And now it is suddenly cold, like March in New York. This place cries to be written about — the passive, shuffling crowds, crowds everywhere, levelled off, everyone the same. Well-dressed people are the exception, and the gap between them and the rest of us can be measured in miles.

…When I think about life before I came here, it is like someone else’s life, something I am being told. I can’t write to anyone. At the moment, I haven’t the postage, but, even if I had, what to say? I am not pitying myself, because I chose it. Evidently this is the way it has to be. I am committed. It is a question of writing or not writing. There is no other way. If there is, I missed it.