Directory of Lost Causes (By Quentin S. Crisp)

Autumn Diary

The following is an extract from my actual diary:

13/Sept/2004

Yesterday and today I have felt sure of the signs of approaching autumn. Autumn – inexpressible bliss! Autumn always comes like something long-forgotten, the very home of the heart.

I went out at about one o’clock to buy some shoes and groceries. I went to the shoe shop on the same road as the station. It appeared to be cheaper than the chainstore I visited previously, and now, of course, the shoes I purchased in that place, in a sale, no less, are worn through and useless. They cost me about seventy pounds, if I recall correctly.

This shop was not a chainstore. The proprietor was a foreign gentleman. I could not quite place his accent, but he was certainly European. It seemed like a real shop, not a corporation, and the prices were reasonable, so I purchased a pair of black patent leather shoes for thirty pounds. Since this was almost all the money I had, I paid a brief visit to the bank, and then walked down to the riverside, to try out my new shoes and to catch a breath of early autumn. But, unfortunately, I knew that I had much work to do – the g--- project I have mentioned – and I could not linger. Am I the only person, I wondered, who finds it hard to bear, not to be able to walk along the river bank and dream of coming autumn because of work? I was not born for this. I am too easily overtaken by dreams to be of much use in this world.

On the way back home I popped into Waitrose to buy some mushrooms, a grapefruit, some cheese, some soap, some pasta and some pasta sauce. A gust of cold air followed me in through the automatic doors.

I worked through until about six forty five, at which time I was beginning to feel horribly depressed, as it was becoming clear that it would be impossible to meet the deadline for the project, and it seemed equally clear that full-time work will always be a cause of terrible unhappiness for me, because it does not leave me enough time for my own writing.

Still, there is no other course than simply to do the work that is in front of me.

D— came round and discussed the project, as a result of which I phoned L— and told her I was worried about the deadline. She seemed sympathetic, and I was much relieved. I could feel the tears in my own voice.

Usually I would have immediately sat down to write, but exhausted after the oppression of work and the partial lifting of that oppression, I needed another walk. I took myself along by the river. It was dusk. As I passed Oak Lane Cemetery I smelt a scent I had long forgotten. It was a particular kind of warm smell I had only known to emanate from wet patches of grass in autumn, and was something like the odour of urine. Perhaps it actually was urine. But, in any case, smelling it I felt again autumn’s inexpressible bliss. And what is that bliss? But I’ve already said it’s inexpressible. I associate it with certain things. Autumn has its own smell, and not just that of urine. There’s a particular freshness to the air, a particular blue to the twilight. I associate autumn with softness and gentleness – the softness of dead leaves and warm clothes. The pale blue air makes me think of some French comic book I’ve never read – an old detective story, perhaps. But most of all, I think I regain something of the softness of the child I was. How can I hope to put it into words now, at half past twelve at night? Why should I try?

Yesterday I smelt bonfire smoke on my walk. L— dug out his old cassettes from somewhere. I saw Images by David Bowie among them. I’ve been wanting to hear it again for a long time. So I’ve been listening to it over the past few days. Since when? Yesterday? Two days?

P— sent me a song he’s made with the lyrics I wrote – There’ll Always be a Place For You In My Heart.