If one day I become financially secure, so that I can freely write and publish, I know I’ll miss this precarious life in which I hardly write and don’t publish at all. I’ll miss it not only because it will be a life, however mediocre, that I’ll never have again, but also because every sort of life has a special quality and particular pleasure, and when we take up another life, even a better one, that particular pleasure isn’t as good, that special quality is less special, until they fade away, and there’s something missing.

If one day I succeed in carrying the cross of my intention to the good Calvary, I’ll find another calvary on that good Calvary, and I’ll miss the time when I was futile, mediocre and imperfect. I will in some sense be less.

I’m tired. I had a long day full of idiotic work in this almost deserted office. Two employees are out sick and the others aren’t here. I’m alone, except for the office boy in the back. I miss the future when I’ll be able to look back and miss all of this, however absurdly.

I’m tempted to ask whatever gods there be to keep me here, as if in a strong-box, safe from life’s sorrows as well as its joys.