June 11, 1951. Letter from Régine Junier telling me of her suicide.
I started perusing Albert Camus’ Notebooks 1951-1959 that Philosopher swiped for me. I’m not seriously getting into the book, just seeing what it contains for the sole reason I’m still reading Portnoy’s Complaint. However, reading the quoted entry started getting me to think about my own suicide. Not that I plan to do a whole suicidal ordeal, but like most people with my mind, I have thought about how I’d kill myself. It’s not at all surprising, trust me.
Suicide has always felt like a waste for me. It’s the most selfish and cowardly act to do, yet many times when I’m in that hole – a bottomless frenzy of distraught and depression – there seems to be no way out of this other than the slitting of a wrist, the barrel of a gun, the noose upon the neck. I dreamed I was Christ once, upon the broken stained glass.
I wish I were better. I wish I were great. I wish I were perfect. If only for you.
The woman on the the television is smiling. I cannot help but think her results are not typical.
—Claudia Rankine, Don’t Let Me Be Lonely