Celia Paul with Lucian Freud and his daughter Bella in the early 1980s
I love to be alone when I’m sad. I read like a maniac.
When I was young I thought I was put on earth to suffer. Isn’t that a funny thought? Delusional in the way children are. But I really was so sensitive, I felt like an open wound leaking all over the place.
I hate crying because it makes my face swollen. I think: 20 more minutes, and then I’ll use the ice roller. I ran from my apartment to the Mission yesterday, and afterwards I thought my face must look ugly because it was so blotchy and flushed. But in Dog-Eared Books a guy walked up to me and mumbled something. What? I asked. You look good, he said, and then he disappeared into the stacks.
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