Good my lord.

I’m not sure what this has to do with anything – but I just discovered that an old friend of mine has won a bunch of prestigious awards. I don’t begrudge him them. He might actually deserve such things, if anyone does. It’s good. It’s good. If anyone gets to get awards, right? It should go to the deserving? The ones we know are brilliant, even if they sometimes aren’t – the way I mostly feel I’m not, but sometimes am.
But still there is jealousy. I write it in green pen. I write it in this book that no one will ever see, surrounded by words unpublished, words that may never be published or be public in any way. I write with the jealousy of the unawarded, the unpublished, the unproduced, the unrecognized, the unknown and find comfort in other people’s jealousy. I find comfort in this: The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered by Clive James

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