No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. . . .It feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. . . . And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn. I fidget, I
smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness. . . . How often – will it be for always? –- how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, ‘I never realized my loss till this moment?’ The same leg is cut off time after time, The first
plunge of the knife into the flesh is felt again and again.