I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. (Virginia Woolf) We become ourselves through others, and the self is a porous thing, not a sealed container (Siri Hustvedt) En vez de mirarme en mi espejo quiero que mi espejo se mire en mí (Alejandra Pizarnik)
The wind died down at sunset. Half a ring of moon hangs in the hollow air. It is very quiet. Somewhere I can hear a woman crooning a song. Perhaps she is crouched before the stove in the corridor, for it is the kind of song that a woman sings before a fire –brooding, warm, sleepy, and safe. I see a little house with flower patches under the Windows and the soft mass of a haystack at the back. The fowls have all gone to roost- they are woolly blurs on the perches. The pony is in the stable with a cloth on. The dog lies in the kennel, his head on his forepaws. The cat sits up beside the woman, her tail tucked in, and the man, still young and careless, comes climbing up the black road. Suddenly a spot of light shows in the window and on the pansy bed below, and he walks quicker, whistling.
But where are these comely people? These young strong people with hard healthy bodies and curling hair? They are not saints or philosophers; they are decent human being- but where are they?
Entry dated November, 1915
Journal of Katherine Mansfield. Persephone Books.