I sit down at my desk and for another hour
record in my composition book everything I have been thinking.
I smile to myself as I see on paper what
I thought last night before I dozed off at midnight.
I am reminded of a story about Sartre coming out
of his study one day and seeing a cousin of
his, tending to her children, and Sartre saying, “No exit.”
A working title, I think, and record in the white
window of the composition book the French words Huis clos.
My barren life has become a hell with no exit.
Paraphrases from the novel Zuckerman Unbound by Philip Roth.