The Diary of a Rapist. Evan S. Connell
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much change since yesterday—am in a pukey humor. Seems to me that Civilization is spinning toward the Pit. No matter where I look. Those big-shot corporation executives the other day convicted by federal Grand Jury of conspiring to violate some regulation or other—millions of dollars involved, brigades of lawyers from 5th Avenue or wherever they have those swank offices. What’s the penalty? Tap on the wrist. Judge gives them “stern warning.” That’s about what I expected. They’ve got the money, the position. That judge was probably scared to death, knew if he did to them what he ought to do they’d ruin him. But let Earl Summerfield swipe an apple—oh oh! Convicted of theft, fined, put on close probation. If I took two dozen apples I’d rot in jail. Why should anybody respect the law! I used to. Yes, I remember when I did, but now I’ve learned how things really are. I can’t be fooled any longer. Believe very little that I’m told, investigate for myself. The government lies to me and people on the street lie to me. Sometimes get the feeling I’m walking on a flimsy little bridge stretched across a canyon. Wind blowing & people shouting at me from both sides. Maybe it’s easier to quit, just step over the rail. I don’t know.
Could be the monotony of the office that makes me feel like this. Get away Earl! Get away before it’s too late. How? Sometimes I wish I lived in the middle of Egypt. Anyplace. Would be willing to trade my soul for one hour of hot sunlight instead of this rain. February rain. Rain.
Get away. How? I keep asking. Another month’s almost gone & what have I got to show for it? How many more? I realize I’m much too intelligent for my job, that’s one thing that depresses me. Forced to spend every day talking to laborers so stupid that one of these days think I might just give up the use of language and resort to signs. Why doesn’t the Bureau recognize my ability? Why can’t Mrs. Fensdeicke grasp the fact that I should be assigned to important work? It’s possible she does know and is worried that I’ll get her job, or even that Mr. Foxx may promote me to some position where she’ll have to take orders from me. Mr. Summerfield, pardon me, but we need your initials on this. Mr. Summerfield, excuse us, but would you give us your opinion about this case? Then I could have an office of my own, wouldn’t be perched on that stool with my rump exposed. Sitting there I feel like a miserable fool, people smiling at me behind my back.
FEBRUARY 27
Wednesday. There’s s-silver, pl-pl-platinum and gold in the sea! says Magnus. Yes, it’s there, no doubt, in the sand along the coast and in the mouths of rivers, carried down from the Mother Lode. And offshore are traces of copper, manganese, iron, cobalt, all brought up by currents from the ocean bottom. Won’t be long until miners go to work thousands of feet below the surface on the bedrock of the Pacific. Submerged capsules will be traveling across the shelf like lobsters, or hanging in mid-ocean undisturbed by the turmoil of the upper world. True enough, nobody with any sense would doubt that prediction—not any more, not after what’s happened these past few years. But how is Magnus going to profit by all this? That’s what I can’t understand. He seems to think he’s going to benefit, whereas the truth is he won’t, neither of us will. The profits of the future will go where the profits of the past have gone—into the pockets of the admirals, the generals, the waxy old men. slumped in the backs of limousines. Not a penny for Magnus, not a penny for Earl. Why doesn’t he realize that’s how it is? Says he’s going to Arizona on his vacation to hunt for gemstones in the desert. Somebody down there discovered a jade boulder weighing a thousand pounds. Maybe. Maybe not. Suppose it’s true, will Magnus find another one? He won’t find a thing, no more than I would. Why? Because we don’t live at the right address. Life’s just that simple. Poor Magnus is going to spend his two weeks in Arizona sifting pebbles through a sieve. Well, he’s as likely to make his fortune as I am—perhaps I should stop being such a realist and join him. Shut my eyes, stuff rubber plugs in my ears. Nod & bow & smile.
FEBRUARY 28
Have been thinking that perhaps I grip myself too tightly. I squeeze myself dry, that could be the trouble. I’m too careful, too discreet. Pick a path through life avoiding—avoiding what? Absolutely everything, in fact. I can’t Allow anything to happen, I’ve got to plan it. I want it to happen on schedule. Caught up with me today—turned my face to the ceiling and let loose a howl. Nobody heard. What if tomorrow I opened my mouth and did it? At least I’d be noticed. That could be what I need. I keep waiting, waiting, avoiding trouble, assuming that before much longer I’ll be recognized. How soon? I’m afraid to attract attention to myself but at the same time I hate this anonymity. Christ. Oh Jesus Christ! If only I knew what would become of me.
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