Wednesday, February 17th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
I really enjoyed working on my novel today, and this although I had a headache most of the time. Usually I am incapacitated by a headache, but this time I worked through it. It is the best thing to do I know but usually I feel so sorry for myself that I can only sit quietly and groan.
An acquaintance (female) accused me yesterday of lacking emotion. The circumstances were a sort of public street celebration which we came across by accident - lots of cheering, people hugging each other, laughter and general bonhommie. I can't actually say I found out what was being celebrated. In any case I was my usual reserved and cautious self; hence the accusation. In fact it isn't true. I have a great deal of emotion, but it has been so long consciously suppressed that my reputation as a 'cold fish' is cast iron. Why is this? Well of course we weren't encourage to ventilate feelings as children or as young adults, but I think that my shyness (not helped by my speech impediment) caused me to erect a sort of defensive shield and it became ingrained. Quite often I find myself on the verge of tears in an emotional situation, especially where there is music involved, but I will do almost anything to cover up. Frankly I would like to 'let go' but cannot do it. I envy those people who can immerse themselves without thought or shame in popular feeling. I am sure that their life is richer as a result. On the other hand, I have noticed that those who experience heights of emotion are often subject to the opposite as well. So my only consolation is that depression never takes me.
I bought Mercier's 18th century book "Le Tableau de Paris" on the quays this afternoon and found it excellent.
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