Since my handwriting has received justifiable criticism of late, today I’m doing my best to produce a script that’s elegant, svelte, large, and easy to read. There’s something really nefarious about the weather here in Colonia, and it sends the nervous system into disarray. Today I got up early and went out to run some errands before noon, and (speaking of “svelte” handwriting) my body felt monstrous and muddled, as if I’d turned into a kind of toad with a disgusting swollen belly, dragging myself laboriously along on weak, stubby legs. Walking three or four blocks through the town in this cloying, stormy weather is a herculean task. Despair clings to your skin like the sticky heat. All you can think about is finding a dark, cool place where you can lie down and let life pass you by. As Juan Ignacio says, “It’s a struggle.”

But I’m no longer trying my best when it comes to my handwriting. Instead, I’m getting carried away by the subject matter and forgetting about forming the letters. I can’t concentrate on both things at once. That’s better; now I’m thinking only about the letters. Which means I won’t attempt to do anything other than form them properly. No letting in other thoughts that have nothing to do with the business of forming letters. It’s boring. I can’t think of anything to write, like a person who can’t think of anything to say when someone thrusts a microphone in their face and demands a comment. It seems that the function of writing or talking depends entirely on meaning, on thought, and you can’t think consciously about thinking itself. Similarly, you can’t write for the sake of writing, or think for the sake of thinking, without meaning being involved.

November 22

Yesterday I noticed that the days when I have messy handwriting are also the days when I smoke considerably more cigarettes than usual. Conclusion: bad handwriting is caused by anxiety. Now I just have to work out what causes the anxiety, but that will be much easier to do thanks to a dream I had the other day. The dream, or part of the dream, involved a vague narrative relating to a war and various soldiers or policemen I had to hide from. But the main story line was about some bicycles my parents were thinking of selling, which belonged to me.