because clearly she didnât give me the notebooks for my own enjoyment. And here I am, seeing ulterior motives in Alicia. (But whatâs wrong with that? Carlos has always enjoyed detective novels.)
On Thursday afternoon I told C about my anxiety. I was lying in bed, worn out. I didnât want to see anybody I knew, the mere idea of picking up the phone made me want to puke. But I desperately needed to get out of my apartment and to speak. For a moment, I wished there were a place in Santiago where strangers could sit on benches and have conversations without having to interact in what we call social relations. A pretty little plaza with trees, streetlamps, and life. Where? Nowhere, dreaming, you knew it right away. As if La Cañada or La Alameda de las Delicias still existed, as if people still walked arm-in-arm, she said, as if we were of an age to go sit in the Plaza de Armas and watch the people go walking by. Then she told me about a place in Spain, Alicante, San Sebastián, like she was remembering it herself. A place where old people go to retire; there, facing the sea, they have set out hundreds of chairs, and when the weather is nice, they can sit down wherever they like to watch the waves come and go, to deliberately converse with anyone who is nearby. Imagine that in Chile such a place existed, a place called Neutria.
            August 27 th
            3:10 A.M.
Before entering my room I sense an odor, a foul, rancid odor. How is it possible? My own body disturbs me, I canât even begin to imagine the displeasure I provoke. Ah, please, forgive my indelicacy in these notes. As might be expected, I read and read all week long. I was hoping to give fate a chance, what chance! Look at me, reading the weekly horoscopeâa habit I no doubt retain from afternoons spent with Jâwhere it says that Thursday is a special day: love moves into the phase of compromise. Alicia is so far away, I cannot see her and yet I evoke her, even now. (Why donât I just use her initials like I do with everyone else, why does she have the luck of being the woman whom I name while writing this diary, the only one not victim of my lethal capriciousness?)
The horrible thing is that reading doesnât make me calm; I spent the afternoon thinking about Donoso, about Coronation and its protagonist who doesnât live life, but just reflects on it. (Do I want to be him?) I regret getting drunk so easily, just because C is celebrating her birthday, I am going to reject Aliciaâs invitation to dance. Too many questions await me back at my desk. Yesterday, coming back from playing soccer, Eâs friendâs car turned a corner and, instead of asking them to drop me off, I let out an absurd laugh. A few blocks later, realizing weâd passed my address, they stopped. They asked me why I hadnât said anything, I said I didnât know.
I think about corruption, about indecency, and about the unfathomable. At Câs party, J was dancing, talking, and laughingâhappy. I know I didnât deserveânor did sheâan explanation (oreven a greeting), but we were both waiting for one. Thatâs why, in these first days of spring, I take up the contradiction of writing this diary, revelation and concealment, the resplendent whiteness of the page and the hope that if I play enough soccer, if I write and write, Iâll be able to distance myself from the terror that after reading me, no one will ever want to see me. Give me shelter. I canât go on.
            August 27 th
            12:00 P.M.
I want to explain myself but I am not, Iâm not capable. My head hurts, my vision is spinning, and Iâm nauseated. I felt deranged reading what I wrote last night with the last of my strength, its meaning escapes me now and I donât
On Thursday afternoon I told C about my anxiety. I was lying in bed, worn out. I didnât want to see anybody I knew, the mere idea of picking up the phone made me want to puke. But I desperately needed to get out of my apartment and to speak. For a moment, I wished there were a place in Santiago where strangers could sit on benches and have conversations without having to interact in what we call social relations. A pretty little plaza with trees, streetlamps, and life. Where? Nowhere, dreaming, you knew it right away. As if La Cañada or La Alameda de las Delicias still existed, as if people still walked arm-in-arm, she said, as if we were of an age to go sit in the Plaza de Armas and watch the people go walking by. Then she told me about a place in Spain, Alicante, San Sebastián, like she was remembering it herself. A place where old people go to retire; there, facing the sea, they have set out hundreds of chairs, and when the weather is nice, they can sit down wherever they like to watch the waves come and go, to deliberately converse with anyone who is nearby. Imagine that in Chile such a place existed, a place called Neutria.
            August 27 th
            3:10 A.M.
Before entering my room I sense an odor, a foul, rancid odor. How is it possible? My own body disturbs me, I canât even begin to imagine the displeasure I provoke. Ah, please, forgive my indelicacy in these notes. As might be expected, I read and read all week long. I was hoping to give fate a chance, what chance! Look at me, reading the weekly horoscopeâa habit I no doubt retain from afternoons spent with Jâwhere it says that Thursday is a special day: love moves into the phase of compromise. Alicia is so far away, I cannot see her and yet I evoke her, even now. (Why donât I just use her initials like I do with everyone else, why does she have the luck of being the woman whom I name while writing this diary, the only one not victim of my lethal capriciousness?)
The horrible thing is that reading doesnât make me calm; I spent the afternoon thinking about Donoso, about Coronation and its protagonist who doesnât live life, but just reflects on it. (Do I want to be him?) I regret getting drunk so easily, just because C is celebrating her birthday, I am going to reject Aliciaâs invitation to dance. Too many questions await me back at my desk. Yesterday, coming back from playing soccer, Eâs friendâs car turned a corner and, instead of asking them to drop me off, I let out an absurd laugh. A few blocks later, realizing weâd passed my address, they stopped. They asked me why I hadnât said anything, I said I didnât know.
I think about corruption, about indecency, and about the unfathomable. At Câs party, J was dancing, talking, and laughingâhappy. I know I didnât deserveânor did sheâan explanation (oreven a greeting), but we were both waiting for one. Thatâs why, in these first days of spring, I take up the contradiction of writing this diary, revelation and concealment, the resplendent whiteness of the page and the hope that if I play enough soccer, if I write and write, Iâll be able to distance myself from the terror that after reading me, no one will ever want to see me. Give me shelter. I canât go on.
            August 27 th
            12:00 P.M.
I want to explain myself but I am not, Iâm not capable. My head hurts, my vision is spinning, and Iâm nauseated. I felt deranged reading what I wrote last night with the last of my strength, its meaning escapes me now and I donât
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