Портрет художника в юности

           Lynchsaysallwomendo.Thensheremembersthetimeofherchildhood—andmine,ifIwaseverachild.Thepastisconsumedinthepresentandthepresentislivingonlybecauseitbringsforththefuture.Statuesofwomen,ifLynchberight,shouldalwaysbefullydraped,onehandofthewomanfeelingregretfullyherownhinderparts.

           APRIL6,LATER.MichaelRobartesremembersforgottenbeautyand,whenhisarmswrapherround,hepressesinhisarmsthelovelinesswhichhaslongfadedfromtheworld.Notthis.Notatall.Idesiretopressinmyarmsthelovelinesswhichhasnotyetcomeintotheworld.

           APRIL10.Faintly,undertheheavynight,throughthesilenceofthecitywhichhasturnedfromdreamstodreamlesssleepasawearyloverwhomnocaressesmove,thesoundofhoofsupontheroad.Notsofaintlynowastheycomenearthebridge;andinamoment,astheypassthedarkenedwindows,thesilenceisclovenbyalarmasbyanarrow.Theyareheardnowfaraway,hoofsthatshineamidtheheavynightasgems,hurryingbeyondthesleepingfieldstowhatjourney’send—whatheart?—bearingwhattidings?

           APRIL11.ReadwhatIwrotelastnight.Vaguewordsforavagueemotion.Wouldshelikeit?Ithinkso.ThenIshouldhavetolikeitalso.

           APRIL13.Thattundishhasbeenonmymindforalongtime.IlookeditupandfinditEnglishandgoodoldbluntEnglishtoo.