Intimacy by Hanif Kureishi Read Free Book Online Page A

the other way round.
    I like paper of all kinds: creamy, white, yellow; thick, thin, lined, plain. In my cupboard I have at least fifty notebooks, each of which, at the time of purchase, filled me with the excitement of what might be said, of new thoughts discovered. Each has a sheet of white blotting paper between the leaves, and all are blank apart from the first page, on which I have usually written something like, ‘In this notebook I will write whatever comes into my mind, and after a time I will see a picture of myself emerge, made up of significant fragments …’ And then – nothing. I freeze, as one does when things are getting illegitimately interesting.
    I have tried devoting each notebook to a different subject: books I’m reading, thoughts on politics, problems I have with Mother, Susan, present lovers, etc. But as I begin, I become busy washing my weeping fountain pens, refilling them, testing the nibs and wondering why the flow isn’t regular. There are few more exquisite instruments than a fountain pen as it glides over good paper, like a finger over young skin.
    But somehow I am made for ferocious, uncontrolled scribbling on scrap paper with old Biros and stubby soft pencils.
    For our homework, as kids, we would sometimes be asked to write, ‘What I did today.’ Now I feel like compiling a list: the things I didn’t do today. The things I haven’t done in life.
    I think of the people I know (later I might write their names in a suitable notebook) and wonder which of them knows how to live well. If living is an art it is a strange one, an art of everything, and particularly of spirited pleasure. Its developed form would involve a number of qualities sewn together: intelligence, charm, good fortune, unforced virtue, along with wisdom, taste, knowledge, understanding, and the recognition of anguish and conflict aspart of life. Wealth wouldn’t be essential, but the intelligence to accumulate it where necessary might be. The people I can think of who live with talent are the ones who have free lives, conceiving of great schemes and seeing them fulfilled. They are, too, the best company.

Victor and I were in our favourite bar
    Victor and I were in our favourite bar the other day, watching football on television. He said, ‘When I think of how my wife and I stayed together all those barren and arduous nights and years, I cannot understand it at all. Perhaps it was a kind of mad idealism. I had made a promise that I had to fulfil at all costs. But why? The world couldn’t possibly recover from the end of my marriage. My faith in everything would be shattered. I believed in it without knowing how much I believed in it. It was blind, foolish obedience and submission. Probably it was the only kind of religious faith I’ve had. I used to think I had some radicalism in me, but I couldn’t smash the thing that bound me the most. Smash it? I couldn’t even see it!’
    *
    Dear God, teach me to be careless.
    *

Come on. Forward.
    Come on. Forward.
    What do runaways wear? This is important. I should make a list, as Susan has taught me. At Victor’s there will be no proper place for my clothes. I am quite fastidious about such things. It would be better to leave most of them here. But if Susan has any flair she will slash my Vivienne Westwood jacket. It would be dispiriting if my departure went unnoticed – a measure of delirium is essential. As for shoes, I can’t take many pairs, but I will require something both stylish and comfortable to give myself confidence.
    I have several suits, each of which I favour at different times and like to wear out to lunch, an event I look forward to all morning, since it is the first time in the day that I become aware of other people. This week I fancy the double-breasted four-button pinstripe. The trousers are tapered, with flat front pockets. I wear them with dark blue suede loafers. It’s not boxy but wearing it makes me feel