The Collector

 _Emma_. The business of being between inexperienced girl and experienced woman and the awful problem of _the_ man. Caliban is Mr. Elton. Piers is Frank Churchill. But is G.P. Mr. Knightley?

 Of course G.P. has lived a life and has views that would make Mr. Knightley turn in his grave. But Mr. Knightley could never have been a phoney. Because he was a hater of pretence, selfishness, snobbism.

 And they both have the one man's name I really can't stand. George. Perhaps there's a moral in that.

    _November 18th_

 I have eaten nothing for five days. I've drunk some water. He brings me food, but I have touched not _one crumb_.

 Tomorrow I am going to start eating again.

 About half an hour ago, I stood up and felt faint. Had to sit down again. I haven't felt ill so far. Just tummy pains and a bit weak. But this was something different. A warning.

 I'm not going to die for him.

 I haven't needed food. I have been so full of hatred for him and his beastliness.

 His vile cowardice.

 His selfishness.

 His Calibanity.

    _November 19th_

 For all that time, I didn't want to write. Sometimes I wanted to. Then it seemed weak. Like accepting things. I knew as soon as I wrote it down I'd go off the boil. But now I think it needs writing down. Recording. He did _this_ to me.

 Outrage.

 What little friendship, humanity, good nature there was between us has gone.

 From now on we are enemies. Both ways. He said things that showed _he_ hates me as well.

 He resents my existence. That's exactly it.

 He doesn't realize it fully yet, because he's trying to be nice to me at the moment. But he's much nearer than he was. One day soon he's going to wake up and say to himself -- I hate her.

 Something nasty.

 When I came round from the chloroform I was in bed. I had my last underclothes on, but he must have taken everything else off.

 I was furious, that first night. Mad with disgust. His beastly gloating hands touching me. Peeling my stockings off. Loathsome.

 Then I thought of what he might have done. And hadn't. I decided not to fly at him.

 But silence.

 To shout at someone suggests that there's still contact.

 Since then I've thought two things.

 First: he's weird enough to have undressed me without thinking, according to some mad notion of the "proper" thing to do. Perhaps he thought I couldn't lie in bed with my clothes on.

 And then that perhaps it was a sort of reminder. Of all the things he might have done, but hadn't. His chivalry. And I accept that. I have been lucky.

 But I even find it frightening that he didn't do anything. What is he?

 There is a great rift between us now. It can never be bridged.

 He says now he will release me in another four weeks. Just talk. I don't believe him. So I've warned him I'm going to try to kill him. I would now. I wouldn't think twice about it.

 I've seen how wrong I was before. How blind.

 I prostituted myself to Caliban. I mean, I let him spend all that money on me, and although I told myself it was fair, it wasn't. Because I felt vaguely grateful, I've been nice to him. Even my teasing was nice, even my sneering and spitting at him. Even my breaking things. Because it takes notice of him. And my attitude should have been what it will be from now on -- ice.

 Freeze him to death.

 He is absolutely inferior to me in all ways. His one superiority is his ability to keep me here. That's the only power he has. He can't behave or think or speak or do anything else better than I can -- nearly as well as I can -- so he's going to be the Old Man of the Sea until I shake him off somehow.

 It will have to be by force.

 I've been sitting here and thinking about God. I don't think I believe in God any more. It is not only me, I think of all the millions who must have lived like this in the war. The Anne Franks. And back through history. What I feel I _know_ now is that God doesn't intervene. He lets us suffer. If you pray for liberty then you may get relief just because you pray, or because things happen anyhow which bring you liberty. But God can't hear. There's nothing human like hearing or seeing or pitying or helping about him. I mean perhaps God has created the world and the fundamental laws of matter and evolution. But he can't care about the individuals. He's planned it so some individuals are happy, some sad, some lucky, some not. Who is sad, who is not, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care. So he doesn't exist, really.

 These last few days I've felt Godless. I've felt cleaner, less muddled, less blind. I still believe in a God. But he's so remote, so cold, so mathematical. I see that we have to live as if there is no God. Prayer and worship and singing hymns -- all silly and useless.

 I'm trying to explain why I'm breaking with my principles (about never committing violence). It is still my principle, but I see you have to break principles sometimes to survive. It's no good trusting vaguely in your luck, in Providence or God's being kind to you. You have to act and fight for yourself.

 The sky is absolutely empty. Beautifully pure and empty.