Alfred Mansfield, Preeminent Pulp Writer

For the time being, it is imperative that I stop entertaining “a certain pre-Raphaelite aestheticism that worships the medieval concept of beauty as a reflection of the Hellenic ideal of the young male form,” it being what it is and I lacking time and effort to rework my style as Alfred Mansfield, preeminent pulp writer.

Health: My throat has been afflicted. I cannot sing or talk as I used to. Step to take: cut back on the cigarettes.

Writing: I’ve christened the third volume after Little Nancy. I see no mistake in such a choice. My notebooks and this journal itself are but romans à clef. There is enough conjecture as to whether Nancy was a virgin suicide, a closeted communist, lacking in will or truly a man, only the last of which is undoubtedly true.

Expectations, Short-term:
Pass finals, raise my grades.
Acquire a trilby and/or a boater.
Decide whether to app Borges, or not. Sade would be too much for me.

Great* Expectations, Long-term:
Get into a British exchange programme. If UCL’s not on the list by then, I’m off to Kent.
Meet with a certain expatriate, if prospect n. one goes well.
Finish the novel.
Become politically active.
Ultimately, work under the radar.

* ‘Great’ being synonymous with ‘unrealistic’.

To a Pall Mall Critic

“The enfant terrible, with his shameless love of truth.”

I’ve realised I might never renounce Oscar.

His words have shaped me, taken me to brown 1889. A type of nostalgia creeps for what was never mine, but what can I say of it? The man can gather his share of lovers – ‘cultists’ a more accurate term, and build them in whichever manner he pleases.

As many a spinster said of Christ, “To know him is to love him.” At fourteen, the sight of his full face clogged my cogwheels. Most likely, it does still. He has untied, undone, reworked.

I am only thankful.