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Poem
As a writer, people are my vocation. 
As for humanity, men, women 
And other abstractions, 
Their interests constitute little more 
Than my hobby; I can only deal in people. 
As soon as I start dealing in sects 
And sections, I am either an insider 
Or an outsider, and I feel lost as either
And as soon as I feel lost, 
I make no attempt to find myself, 
But simply retrace my steps
And return to the people. 
You can call me detached if you like, 
But you see, the only way 
I can remain sane as a person 
With such an all-consuming instinct 
For attachment, is to be detached.
The world of subjectivity 
Holds no sway over me, 
Because it is paradoxically impersonal, 
Being affiliated to partisanship, 
Sentimental causes and other such abstractions.
I couldn't possibly belong 
To a school of orthodox thought 
That accepted me as a member. 
I don't believe in myself 
Other than as a crystal clear container 
For the freshest cream of human individualism.
When I was younger, 
I ached to be famous for the sake of it, 
But now it occurs to me 
That anyone can be famous 
Provided they are sufficiently audacious 
And thick-skinned, and I desire fame 
Not so much for the vain satisfaction 
Of being seen and known and heard, 
But in order to guide others 
Towards a happier way of being, 
The only precept for celebrity, 
Indeed for being in general, as far as I can see.
Adversity seems to be my fate, 
As well as fortune.
The meek ones gravitate to me.
I'm the prince of the hurt ones, 
The damaged ones.
I resent all success and authority.
I'm so affectionate one moment, 
So icy and evasive the next.
I'm in love with many people at present.
I over-accentuate my individuality, 
Because sometimes I look at myself 
In the mirror and I say: 
"Who's that pathetic wreck?"
The more complex you are, 
The less you like yourself, 
Because you frighten yourself. 
The more I find myself liking someone, 
The more I doubt us both. 
Liking someone negates them for me.

("An Aphoristic Self-Portrait" was based on a series of teeming informal diary entries made in various receptacles in the late 1980s. "The Compensatory Man Par Excellence" originally formed part of a novel written - at an estimate - around 1987. Its fate remains a mystery. "Self-Portrait" may also once have been part of it.)
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