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.I admire Bradley for that.Bradley was curious about my life.Imagines me sheltered, preciously unknown, discovered by him.His face fell when I said my life was eventful.He did not want it to be so.Nobody wants me to live, to get known.Like a guitar for chamber music only.You are the only one who said: "Get out, get a little tougher." You dared me.It is you who are right.The damned journal should end Wednesday when my father comes to Louveciennes.But my life is only beginning.I love the idea of anonymity for the journal.It fits my earlier desire to remain unknown.It is wonderful, the secrecy again and always.It is all so incredible, this interest in my journal, the presentation to Alfred Knopf (who rejected my book on Lawrence).Bradley concerned about my health because of the mention of handicaps in the early journals.Asking if his visit tired me.The concern of the world.I am frightened by his praise, and highly nervous.Moved by his kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness.Bradley looked at June's face in the photograph and said she looked fictitious, unreal, false.Her personality was all acting and pretending and empty of core."I'm against moral make-up," he said, cannily.Before such people as Bradley, I begin to imagine that I am also a fake—that maybe all my journals, books, and personality are fakes.When I'm admired I think I am duping the world.I begin to add my lies and to tremble.I have to say to myself: "Either I am just a cleverer liar and actress than June, or I'm real." So many people believe in me instinctively, suspicious and intuitive people.Simple people who hate artificiality above all, severe, moral people.And now Bradley.And I see the question of my sincerity could easily drive me insane if I studied it continuously.My imagination entangles me hopelessly.I lose myself.What distresses me is that I seem to play on the feelings of people.June reproached Henry for playing the role of the "victim" in their relationship.I have often wondered whether June was not the sincerest one of all because so easily discovered.[May, 1933]My father came.I expected the man of the photographs, a more transparent face.A face less furrowed, less carved, less masklike, and at the same time I liked the new face, the depth of the lines, the firmness of the jaw, the femininity and charm of the smile, all the more startling in contrast to the tanned, almost parchment-toned skin.A smile with a forceful dimple which was not a dimple but a scar from sliding down a stairway banister and piercing his cheek with an ornament when he was a child.The neatness and compactness of the figure, grace, vital gestures, ease, youthfulness.A gust of imponderable charm.A supreme, open egotism.Webs of talk, defenses against unuttered accusations, justifying his life, his love of the sun, of the south of France, of luxury, preoccupation with the opinion of others, fear of criticism, susceptibility, continuous play-acting, wit and articulateness, violence of images, the lusty and vivid imagery of the Spanish language transposed into French.He had come to France, had studied with Vincent d'Indy, had been made the youngest professor at the Schola Cantorum, when I was born.A childlike, disarming smile.Always charm.The predominance of charm.Undercurrents of puerility, unreality.A man who had pampered himself (or been pampered by women?), cottoned himself against the deep pains of living by luxury, by salon life, by aesthetics, yet preoccupied with the fear of destructiveness, compelled to expand, obeying his quest of sensuality, of pleasure, having found no other way to obtain his desires but by deception.A passion for aesthetics and for creation.Concerts, composition, books, articles.Research into lost and rare music, discovery of talented people, introducing them to the public (The Aguilar Quartet, La Argentina).Was the source of feeling dried up by pretenses, play-acting, by egotism? Would my double be my evil double? He incarnated all the dangers of my illusory life, my inventing of situations, my deceptions, my faults.In some way they seemed a caricature of me, because mine seemed motivated by deep feelings, and his by more superficial and worldly aims.The public played a major role in his life, the concert stage, the critics, fashionable and titled friends, salons, and manners.Something very human and warm in me (my mother?) lived by truer values in people.He cared about display, dress, money.There was an unawareness of others.Almost a cynicism."And now you write and speak a language I do not know.I don't know what life in America has done to you.Your mother was very clever in taking you so far away, trying to estrange us.She knew I did not like America, feared it, even.That I did not know English.Le pays du 'bluff'.""But you could have come to see us, you could have come on a concert tour.Many people told me that you had been invited.""Yes, it is true, I could have come when you were still children.America intimidated me.Too different from all I cared about."I know that he is looking for resemblances."Do you like to dress well?""I like to dress with originality, to suit myself, not the fashion.""Do you like gardening?""With gloves on!" We laughed.When he describes himself, I see that he draws an idealized image.He wants to believe himself kind, altruistic, charitable, generous.Yet so many people have commented on his selfishness, his not sending money to his mother in Spain, and talking about not being able to send it, while smoking gold-tipped cigarettes, wearing silk shirts, driving an American de luxe car, and living in the fashionable quarter of Paris in a private house.We are both looking into mirrors, to catch reflections of blood twinship.We are punctual, a stressed, marked characteristic.We need order around us, in the house, in the life, although we live by irresistible impulses, as if the order in the closets, in our papers, in our books, in our photographs, in our souvenirs, in our clothes could preserve us from chaos in our feelings, loves, in our work.Indifference to food, sobriety; but this, we admit, is part of the war against a threatening fragility."Will," says my father, drawing himself up.The will to counter-balance the sudden abandonment to sensations, lyrical flights and fantasies.He, too, suffers from romanticism, quixotism, cynicism, naïveté, cruelty, schizophrenia, multiplicity of selves, dé-doublement, and is bewildered as to how to make a synthesis.We smile with sympathy at each other.As a Spanish man, demanding of women only blind devotion, submission, warmth, love, protection, he is amazed to find in a woman a spirit like his own, adventurous, rebellious, explorative, unconventional.Amazed, and at first delighted, for every narcissist dreams of a twin.No Dorian Gray in a painting, but a father like myself, a daughter like myself.The double who will answer questions.Do you feel this way, or that way? You too? Well, we are not so strange, or so lonely.There are two of us.The fragments of our life which do not fit into a desired image, we discard.But I cull them in the diary, and I cannot forget them.My father forgets them.My father clings to the woman who holds him together by her faith—innocent and wholehearted Maruca.But he is not guiltless.He spent an hour explaining why he had had to go to the south of France for four months.I had not asked him to justify his trip! Long explanations on the state of his health, the hard Paris winter, the exhaustion.Why should he not go to the south of France if he wishes to? There must be something else behind this which he is covering up.He probably went to meet a mistress
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