There are other people like me out there. There is a karass. I know there is, there can be.
Thursday 18th October 1979
This school is enough to make anyone a communist.
I read The Communist Manifesto today—it’s very short. It would be like living on Anarres. I’ll take that over this any day.
Friday 19th October 1979
I loved Mor, but I never appreciated her enough. I never really understood how wonderful it was to always have someone to talk to who would know what you were talking about, and someone to play with who understood the kind of things I wanted to play.
Only one more week of school before half term.
Saturday 20th October 1979
Blessed interlibrary loan. They’ve found Purposes of Love and The Last of the Wine for me!
I took back last weeks’s eight books. I also got out five other things by authors I know and The Magus. I’ve never heard of the author (Fowles) but hey, a book about a wizard!
I ordered twenty-eight books, from lists on title pages. The librarian, the man, looked a little taken aback, but didn’t make a fuss about it.
It was raining stair-rods, and almost all the leaves are off the trees. I went to the bakery cafe again, because the other girls don’t go there and they’re all over the proper cafes in town. Afterwards I walked over to look at the water and the swan hissed at me. My shoes were sinking into the mud at the edge, but I went on under the trees, looking for fairies. There were one or two, but hard to see, and not inclined for conversation, which is a pity, because apart from a letter from my father I haven’t had any at all this week.
Sunday 21st October 1979
James Tiptree, Jr. is a woman! Gosh!
I never would have guessed though. My goodness, Robert Silverberg must have egg all over his face. But I bet he doesn’t care. (If I’d written Dying Inside I wouldn’t mind how much of a fool of myself I made about anything ever again. It might be the most depressing book in the world, I mean it’s right up there with Hardy and Aeschylus, but it’s also just so brilliant.) And the Tiptree stories are good, too, though none of them quite up to “The Girl Who Was Plugged In.” I suppose I can see doing that so as to get respect, but Le Guin didn’t, and she got the respect. She won the Hugo. I think in a way Tiptree was taking the easy option. But think how fond her characters are of misdirection and disguise; maybe she is too? I suppose all writers use characters as masks, and she was using the male name as another layer. Come to that, if I was writing “Love is the Plan, the Plan is Death” I might not want people to know where I lived either.
I was the only person not to get a bun today, not that I care. Even Deirdre got one from Karen. Deirdre looks at me in a strange puzzled way, which is actually worse than anything. I understand Tiberius’ reliance on Sejanus much better now. I also understand how he became peculiar. Being left alone—and I am being left alone—isn’t quite as much what I wanted as I thought. Is this how people become evil? I don’t want to be.
I wrote to Auntie Teg, trying to sound cheerful. I also wrote to my father, hoping I might persuade him to take me to see her, maybe, and see Grampar in hospital. They’re the only people I have left now. He wouldn’t want to see them, but I could and he could wait in the car. It would be really nice to see some people who like me. Five more days to half term and getting out of this place for a week.
Monday 22nd October 1979
In chemistry today, Gill came and sat by me. It was very brave of her, actually, considering how everyone has been behaving. “So you don’t think I’m a voodoo leper?” I asked straight out at the end of class.
“I’m a scientist,” she said. “I don’t believe in any of that. And I know you got in trouble for sending me a bun.”
It was lunchtime, so we went to the dining hall together. I don’t care what people think. She says she doesn’t read fiction much at all, but she’ll lend me a book of Asimov’s science essays called The Left Hand of the Electron. She has three brothers, all older. The oldest one is at Oxford. They’re all scientists too. I like her. She’s restful.
The Magus is very weird. I’m not sure whether I like it, but I can’t wait to get back to it and I keep thinking about it all the time. It’s not about magic, not really, but the atmosphere is just like. It’s an odd thing to read, because he’s always walking for miles across the thyme-scented island, like we used to do. We’d think nothing of walking miles on the dramroads, up to Llwydcoed, or to Cwmdare. We’d usually get a bus to Penderyn, but once we were there we’d walk out across the tops for hours. I loved the views from up there. We’d lie down on the grass and stare up to see the skylarks, and we’d pick up bits of wool the sheep had dropped and card them and give them to the fairies.
Tuesday 23rd October 1979
Leg very bad today. I have days when I can sort of walk, and then other days. I suppose I could say days when stairs are bad and days when stairs are torture. Today is definitely one of the second kind. I got another letter, dammit. I need to burn them or something. They’re so malign they almost glow with it. I can see them out of the corner of my eye, though it might just be the pain doing odd things to me. Friday is half term. My father’s going to pick me up at six. He didn’t say where we’re going, but it’ll be away from here. I can’t take the letters, though of course I can’t leave them either.
I’m not at all sure about the end of The Magus. It’s even more ambiguous than Triton. Who would write the last two lines in Latin, which almost nobody can read? It’s a library book, but I have lightly pencilled in the translation over the page:
Tomorrow shall be love for the loveless, and for the lover, love.
So Alison will love him, I suppose, for whatever that’s worth. It wasn’t enough before. He only really wanted her when he thought she was dead.
In the last part of the book, back in London, when Nicholas wants back into the mystery, whatever it is, is just how I don’t want to be. I should never have tried to talk to that fairy. Let someone else do something about Dutch elm disease. It isn’t my problem. I have finished with saving the world, and I never expected it to be the slightest bit grateful anyway. I’ve got this stupid boring one-note pain droning on at me, and I understand Nicholas only too well there, because who wouldn’t want that? But also, I don’t want to be pathetic like him.
Thursday 25th October 1979
It wasn’t raining, for the first time in ages, and my leg was feeling a bit better, so I went out in the half hour after prep. I went down to the edge of the playing field by the ditch, where I saw the fairy before, and made a bonfire out of all the letters. It was almost dark, and it burned up very brightly at once, with only one match. I suppose it might have been the photograph paper, because she’d burned part before so it longed for fire. “Oft evil will doth evil mar,” as Gandalf put it. Oft, not always. You can’t rely on it, but it does seem to happen quite often.
I felt much better once they were on fire. A few fairies came out and danced around the flames, the way they always do. We used to call them salamanders, and igneids. They’re an amazing colour, where blue flicks over and becomes orange. Most of them were acting as if they couldn’t see me, or I couldn’t see them, but one of them was looking at me, kind of sideways. She turned the yellow of the spots on the elm bark when she saw me looking, so I knew she knew what I’d asked before. “What can I do?” I asked, pathetic, despite what I said yesterday about Nicholas.