The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates

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Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
Friday, various interesting conversations. My awareness of the differences between people, the pressures that certain environments make upon personalities—and not upon others. My friend J. is a “Detroiter” as well as an “American,” as well as an individual of a unique sort; my friend G. an ex-Chicagoan, now a Canadian citizen; * but I seem rootless, homeless, without specific identity. Perhaps it is the rural background…nature being a kind of universal, in contrast to the important specifics of cities. There, neighborhoods are very important…each downtown is unique…landmarks significant, acquiring (as in Lockport, for me † ) a certain semi-mystic importance, deeply imprinted upon the imagination. The stores one drifted in and out of, in early adolescence!…the window-shopping, daydreaming, the myriad insatiable observations…. But the country is the country. Nature is nature. Driving north into Washington, the other summer, I was struck by something familiar in the landscape, though I had never been there before…. It is not true, of course, that“nature” is simply “nature”; regions vary, atmospheres vary, Northern California is another world compared to Southern California…but there is a certain oneness, a certain calm acceptance…. Nationalities mean little, “patriotism” is a difficult thing, governments remote, abstract, faintly ludicrous (especially in our time). Nature is victorious, an absolute without melodrama, a constant; the nature of our pasts is always accessible in the present, a source of much consolation. Therefore it is difficult for me to participate in passionate conversations about “national identity.”…I halfway think people talk of such things because they have nothing else to talk about. Then they argue, then they make their telling points, then they depart….
     
    A surprising conversation with R. I asked him if he thought very often of death—of life-and-death—philosophical matters—the odd fact of human personality and consciousness—these teasing things I am haunted by constantly, every hour of my life. His reply was simple: “No.”
     
    The lakers and ocean freighters on the river are now decorated for Christmas. Some have Christmas trees illuminated, others fanciful arrangements of colored lights, mainly red and green. Strange silent boats going by in the night…really beautiful, mysterious…a very nice custom.
     
    We are very detached, though, from Christmas and the holiday season. No connection whatsoever. Gifts?—we don’t exchange them. Very few cards sent out. No ceremonies between us—none of a formal nature, anyway. Puzzling, that others should have time for such things, year after repetitive year….
     
    December 29, 1974. No entries for many days; cannot guess why. Much happens and continues to happen, in this odd end-of-year acceleration when one’s previous life seems somehow brought back, observed dispassionately, marveled at. A year ago I experienced vivid and unforgettable New Year’s Eve dreams, and am hoping to elude them this year. The psyche can be overpowering, can draw one’s concentration away from matters that must be attended to (like planning for classes, runninga household), induce a curious melancholy and yearning for the transcendent which daily life cannot satisfy….
     
    Went out to dinner with Jerry Mazzaro, * talked of poetry and difficulties at Buffalo (too many temperamental people in too small an area) and love of the process of writing, which really can’t be spoken of, can only be experienced. He said Anne Sexton had died drinking champagne, a brick on the accelerator of her car. Truth? Rumor? Since rumors are told about me, I can’t always believe what I hear about other people. Death is a fact…the means of death never.
     
    Superb Indian dinner at the home of the Atkinsons, Colin and Jo. Easy conversation, little strain, their new house near the University comfortable and solid. Sense of alternative

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