Thom had forgotten his book and so, as I was reading or, rather, re-reading The Brother's Karamazov, I found the section where the monk tells of immorality as the healthy response to the loss of god and, while reading it to Thom after dinner, I reflected on the wonder and luck of having such a curious child. I was reminded of a boy I saw at the station yesterday. He was in a circle of other teenage boys and, as they passed and puffed on a class A substance, this boy, clearly in need of some ontological comfort, stuck his hand into his trousers. Thom will have his own battles but, unlike so many of his generation, it will not involve such a consuming onanism. I was then reminded of Giorgione's Sleeping Venus and yet her groping hand is explorative, intuitive and sleepy, far removed from our station boy and his fear of the world, a fear of his face.

My good friend Axel, son of German-Austro industrialists, arrived in London with his Easter boat party this weekend but, thank god, this was not the reason Thom and I took the train to the city. Rather, we were intent on seeing Madame de Sade, a rather thin play about the (oh suffering!) wife of our hero. I am forever astounded at Thom's development and, in the interval, as we aired our first thoughts, I rather regretted feeling that I had to remove the Mapplethorpe from the kitchen wall for the duration of his stay with me. He is only ten but nothing shocks him or, clearly, his friends. Yet as we travelled back I wondered if my gesture was less the preservation of his innocence but perhaps a rearguard attempt to clear some space for him and his rebellion, his own transgressions. Later, pouring a small brandy, Thom came down and kissed me goodnight. I went to bed feeling older, conservative, and pleasurably so.

The low mood has lifted.

My belly is warm and my bowels definitive!

The low mood has slipped away, leaving hardly a trace upon me so I could, and clinically should, succumb again, and perhaps soon. However, pursuing my pleasures with a devotion and attending to my father's toilet have lent me a keen grasp on myself that has restored me immeasurably. Also, I took Helen to Venice. Of course, my initial purpose of the trip was to show Helen Bellini's Madonna degli Alboretti and to gauge her response to the maternal aloof. She was most animated and then, stirring her expensive coffee, withdrew from me. Of course, as I hoped, she came like a train that night.

I should have predicted a few days in Venice, the most artful and fake of cities, would have cheered me, and so it did. Yes, one or two long walks on the Downs has helped, certainly. Yet I find nature so insistent, like an overbearing parent. How can it compare?

Then a message from Karen. She is unwell and will I look after Thom for a few days? My restoration is complete! And yet my first, somewhat bitter feeling, was relief at our mutual lack of support. I am, indeed, a miserly creature. Clearly, if depression were to break out again, I'd deserve every bit of it.

Up 5 am, as ever.

My low mood continues and, at a loss to explore or even refine it, I went shopping for a new translation of my Dante. Yesterday Helen placed my hand on her breast. I almost cried, but she turned away too quickly.

Haven't wanked for weeks.

I keep waiting for rain. I did this as a child, but no storm is sufficient now.

The O tires me out. Possibly I shall ring K and enquire after some stimulants. He has promised me a look at his 16th century edition of an Italian book on the varieties of the female breast. The longer I live the more I understand our entire failure to understand the art of living. They knew it, once.

I am sleepless for days now.

I can feel a heaviness seeping into my bones, and settling in. I feel it in the hesitation of my flesh, the gap between the thought and the doing. And it's not as if I'm uncertain of anything, if anyone was ever certain, it's me. Where is the centre of the world, if not in my beating heart? Of course, I could bypass this crisis. Increase my use of brandy, a few extra pipes of an evening, anything to create a craving and, thereby, a minor addiction. That could prove a useful distraction to this misery. But I am unlikely to accept that, the metonymic of need, as, finally, satisfying enough. Besides, it would be a dishonour to the soul. No, I have no choice now. I will be attentive to detail, kinder to myself. I will relent a little on the Dante, renew my bowels with Chopin, all the while sitting in the wings, awaiting the shadow of my depression to reveal itself.

I woke at 4 am, sleepless.

The red light of the ansaphone flashes in the dark. One of those messages is from George asking, in so many words, my opinion of the Thai. Another is an invite to a talk on Ego and Art, and yet another from Karen, passing on the make and model of the phone she wants for Thom. I am not reluctant to deal with these messages or my rising tide of paperwork, yet I've neglected it all. It seems I require some purchase on these tasks, the underlying thread that links them to me. It's as if I expect the next task to be the one that joins the others together. Is this how it begins, is it? The long road of my dying. I forget, it's so long since I've been depressed.