I feel terribly strange, like a shadow, and full of dread. I dread the time ahead, the amputating time, I do not see how to manage it. I do not want the world to go dark and narrow and mean, and the world has been very unlovely in my eyes, and I very unlovely in it…
My kind of loneliness now has no cure, you know; it is something I expect to live with until I die. Friends are heavenly kind, sometimes fun; it would be fatal not to have them. But I by no means need or want daily contact; perhaps it takes as much out of me as it gives, perhaps takes more.
Martha Gellhorn, from Selected Letters of Martha Gellhorn
Let’s allow ourselves space and error, hysteria and grief. Really, we must let the candle burn—pour gasoline on it if necessary. Creation is our gift and we are ill with it. It has sloshed about my bones and awakened me to stare at 5 a.m. walls.
I was incoherent with rage. Days have passed and now I am coherent with rage. I think in fact that you have become a very shady character, glitzy-shady. I will not cut you dead in the street but I will never again have anything to do with you.
It’s bad too to tell you how tired I am — so maddeningly tired — but maybe I have to be tired to wake up — I’ve had enough — I feel bored to distraction with people and things — I’m ready for my own company again and lots of it too.