I’m now writing out of rage — and I feel a kind of Nietzsche an elation. It’s tonic. I roar with laughter. I want to denounce everybody, tell everybody off. Furthermore, I go to my typewriter as I might go to my machine gun. But I’m safe. I don’t have to face the consequences of ‘real’ aggressively. I’m sending out Colin pieces ['booby-trapped packages'] to the world.

As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks