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En la sombra del sueño americano: Diarios
At the time of his death in 1992, David Wojnarowicz was one of the most vital and important names in the New York arts scene. His openness about his HIV status and engagement in public debates about health care and AIDS policy placed his highly political and determinedly provocative art and writing in a new context. In the Shadow of the American Dream is a collection of journal entries from 1971 (when he was 17) to his death. As he alternates between living on New York's Lower East Side and hitchhiking around the country, we can see the evolution of the artist not only as a young man beginning to understand his life and the world but as a social and political critic.
Wojnarowicz's life was difficult--from his unhappy childhood and adolescence to periods of homelessness and ostracism, coupled with overwhelming despair and loneliness. Yet, ultimately, In the Shadow of the American Dream is a joyful book. We see how Wojnarowicz's art became his salvation--even in the face of AIDS--and his life finally opened and expanded to be able to include other people in ways that never happened before, including a close friendship with photographer Peter Hujar. Wojnarowicz also presents us with insightful commentary on the New York arts scene and the enormous effect AIDS had on gay male life and culture. While In the Shadow of the American Dream is a moving, sometimes frightening self-examination of the life of a gay artist, it is also testimony to how mainstream America treats not only its artists but its radicals and visionaries. --Michael Bronski
328 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1998
About the author
David Wojnarowicz
25 books357 followersDavid Wojnarowicz was a gay painter, photographer, writer, filmmaker, performance artist, and activist who was prominent in the New York City art world of the 1980s.
He was born in Red Bank, New Jersey, and later lived with his mother in New York City, where he attended the High School of Performing Arts for a brief period. From 1970 until 1973, after dropping out of school, he for a time lived on the streets of New York City and worked as a farmer on the Canadian border.
Upon returning to New York City, he saw a particularly prolific period for his artwork from the late 1970s through the 1980s. During this period, he made super-8 films, such as Heroin, began a photographic series of Arthur Rimbaud, did stencil work, played in a band called 3 Teens Kill 4, and exhibited his work in well-known East Village galleries.
In 1985, he was included in the Whitney Biennial, the so-called Graffiti Show. In the 1990s, he fought and successfully issued an injunction against Donald Wildmon and the American Family Association on the grounds that Wojnarowicz's work had been copied and distorted in violation of the New York Artists' Authorship Rights Act.
Wojnarowicz died of AIDS on July 22, 1992. His personal papers are part of the Downtown Collection held by the Fales Library at New York University.
He was born in Red Bank, New Jersey, and later lived with his mother in New York City, where he attended the High School of Performing Arts for a brief period. From 1970 until 1973, after dropping out of school, he for a time lived on the streets of New York City and worked as a farmer on the Canadian border.
Upon returning to New York City, he saw a particularly prolific period for his artwork from the late 1970s through the 1980s. During this period, he made super-8 films, such as Heroin, began a photographic series of Arthur Rimbaud, did stencil work, played in a band called 3 Teens Kill 4, and exhibited his work in well-known East Village galleries.
In 1985, he was included in the Whitney Biennial, the so-called Graffiti Show. In the 1990s, he fought and successfully issued an injunction against Donald Wildmon and the American Family Association on the grounds that Wojnarowicz's work had been copied and distorted in violation of the New York Artists' Authorship Rights Act.
Wojnarowicz died of AIDS on July 22, 1992. His personal papers are part of the Downtown Collection held by the Fales Library at New York University.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 67 reviews
December 25, 2023
It's so odd trying to write about the past based on memory: the landscape and human particulars fall to the odd logic of time and emotional impression. The landscape of memory is as affected by time and personal structure as is landscape affected by light or
darkness. At night when sources of light are curtailed, shaped, bent, deflected, erased, the distances can suddenly be elongated or shortened, physicality of self or landscape expands or contracts in the dark. 8th Avenue in memory can be a location or landscape no one else has ever traveled.
In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz ~~~ David Wojnarowicz
David Wojnarowicz is one of my heroes.
No one captured the emotional, sexual, and political chaos of modern urban life as perceptively as David Wojnarowicz; he had be described as an acute observer of the unmapped region surrounding his heart and one of the best writers of his generation. In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz, is a series of journal entries written from age seventeen until his AIDS-related death at thirty-seven, In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz chronicles the life of the radical artist who became a target for the right wing. These entries tell the story of David Wojnarowicz's creative birth, from publishing his first photographs and writing what would become The Waterfront Journals to completing the brilliant, Close to the Knives, at the height of his infamy. In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz is the story of the private Wojnarowicz, falling in love, exploring the sexually liberated Hudson River piers, becoming overwhelmed by the demands of survival and fame, and searching for the pleasure, freedom and sexual liberation he believed one could live on.
The death of David Wojnarowicz on July 22, 1992 was a loss not only to the art and gay communities, but the entire citizenry of the United States. He was at the forefront of the battles to overcome the struggles for social, political, economic, and cultural structures that had been denied the gay and lesbian community. The art of David Wojnarowicz is still a relevant tool to elucidate, understand and provoke resistance to the so-called universal truths of imposed normality.
David Wojnarowicz is finding new ways to be heard ~~ over 30 years after his death ~~ to counter untruths. David Wojnarowicz taught us art equals life. Highly recommended.
darkness. At night when sources of light are curtailed, shaped, bent, deflected, erased, the distances can suddenly be elongated or shortened, physicality of self or landscape expands or contracts in the dark. 8th Avenue in memory can be a location or landscape no one else has ever traveled.
In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz ~~~ David Wojnarowicz
David Wojnarowicz is one of my heroes.
No one captured the emotional, sexual, and political chaos of modern urban life as perceptively as David Wojnarowicz; he had be described as an acute observer of the unmapped region surrounding his heart and one of the best writers of his generation. In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz, is a series of journal entries written from age seventeen until his AIDS-related death at thirty-seven, In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz chronicles the life of the radical artist who became a target for the right wing. These entries tell the story of David Wojnarowicz's creative birth, from publishing his first photographs and writing what would become The Waterfront Journals to completing the brilliant, Close to the Knives, at the height of his infamy. In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz is the story of the private Wojnarowicz, falling in love, exploring the sexually liberated Hudson River piers, becoming overwhelmed by the demands of survival and fame, and searching for the pleasure, freedom and sexual liberation he believed one could live on.
The death of David Wojnarowicz on July 22, 1992 was a loss not only to the art and gay communities, but the entire citizenry of the United States. He was at the forefront of the battles to overcome the struggles for social, political, economic, and cultural structures that had been denied the gay and lesbian community. The art of David Wojnarowicz is still a relevant tool to elucidate, understand and provoke resistance to the so-called universal truths of imposed normality.
David Wojnarowicz is finding new ways to be heard ~~ over 30 years after his death ~~ to counter untruths. David Wojnarowicz taught us art equals life. Highly recommended.
August 26, 2024
I feel fucking terrible.
January 15, 2021
No one talks feeling like David
March 4, 2024
lo que más me fascinó de estos diarios, además de lo interesante e increíble de la vida y la voz de Wojnarowicz, es el retrato de un lugar que ya no existe.
La Nueva York descrita ha cambiado (o al menos tengo esa impresión desde fuera), al igual que ha cambiado todo y seguira cambiando.
me gusta mucho ver y leer sobre lugares que fueron, en las películas me encanta cuando se muestra la ciudad, como un retrato de personaje. Aquí Nueva York es quizás el segundo personaje más importante después de David, calles sucias y bonitas y vivas.
(la estrella de menos es por la que seleccionó los diarios, estoy seguro que hay material de sobra para que no haga falta repetir tanto algunos temas)
La Nueva York descrita ha cambiado (o al menos tengo esa impresión desde fuera), al igual que ha cambiado todo y seguira cambiando.
me gusta mucho ver y leer sobre lugares que fueron, en las películas me encanta cuando se muestra la ciudad, como un retrato de personaje. Aquí Nueva York es quizás el segundo personaje más importante después de David, calles sucias y bonitas y vivas.
(la estrella de menos es por la que seleccionó los diarios, estoy seguro que hay material de sobra para que no haga falta repetir tanto algunos temas)
March 22, 2024
Es un libro precioso y creo que en verdad es difícil verbalizar todo lo que me ha hecho sentir. Es una de las mejores formas de conectar sus obras y profundizar en ellas, en cómo era él y qué quería transmitir y mostrar al mundo.
October 10, 2024
Leer este diario es montarse en una montaña rusa emocional. Empieza en su adolescencia tardía, cuando comienza a relacionarse con la que dirá que es su gente: vagabundos, prostitutas, travestis, yonkis, homosexuales y artistas underground de la Nueva York de los ochenta. Se ve la preocupación de David de querer trascender a través de su arte. Un arte directo, bruto en ocasiones (imperfecto), que intentará shockear al público a través de una verdad cruda y sin aditivos.
Mientras escribe e intenta publicar sus monólogos, que verán la luz en Random House unos años antes de su muerte, asistimos a la vida del artista, a sus contactos sexuales espontáneos pero también a sus relaciones personales continuadas, a sus reflexiones sobre la finalidad del arte pero también sobre sus medios, a su idea de la enfermedad pero también a su padecimiento. Es muy duro ver cómo las personas de su alrededor se van muriendo de sida poco a poco, cómo sus cuerpos se van apagando hasta ser una débil fotocopia de su yo anterior, muy duro también leer lo consciente que era de ser el siguiente en una lista interminable.
Acabo de terminar de leerme sus diarios. Son las ocho de la mañana de un jueves cualquiera. La lectura de este libro me ha agotado físicamente. Me miro al espejo y veo el primer tatuaje que me hice, situado justo en medio del pecho: la silueta de una casa en llamas que robé de un cuadro gigante de Wojnarowicz expuesto en el Reina Sofía. Sonrío.
Mientras escribe e intenta publicar sus monólogos, que verán la luz en Random House unos años antes de su muerte, asistimos a la vida del artista, a sus contactos sexuales espontáneos pero también a sus relaciones personales continuadas, a sus reflexiones sobre la finalidad del arte pero también sobre sus medios, a su idea de la enfermedad pero también a su padecimiento. Es muy duro ver cómo las personas de su alrededor se van muriendo de sida poco a poco, cómo sus cuerpos se van apagando hasta ser una débil fotocopia de su yo anterior, muy duro también leer lo consciente que era de ser el siguiente en una lista interminable.
Acabo de terminar de leerme sus diarios. Son las ocho de la mañana de un jueves cualquiera. La lectura de este libro me ha agotado físicamente. Me miro al espejo y veo el primer tatuaje que me hice, situado justo en medio del pecho: la silueta de una casa en llamas que robé de un cuadro gigante de Wojnarowicz expuesto en el Reina Sofía. Sonrío.
March 28, 2025
I spent over 8 months with this book. It is not to be rushed - because to rush it would be like rushing Wojnarowicz's life itself. It is to be ingested slowly, savored, and reveled in - just in the same hedonic and beautiful and wrenching way that he lived. I rewrote entire pages of this into my journal, they struck so deeply. This book opens an impossibly intimate relationship with David - each page feels like a precious gift, to have access to that kind of mind, to that kind of person. I don't even want to write any more on this one because he said it all already, in such a way that one wonders if writing in his wake is just a futile task.
December 22, 2010
If you survived the initial AIDS years, and lost a lot of friends to the plague, this book will break your heart. David will remind you of what, and who, we lost and will never regain. The 70's and 80's are generally defined by the music, most of it dreadful crap, while little attention is paid to the people who lived outside the mediocre society, the people who created the arts and cultures that were dumbed down and exploited by cocaine-maddened charlatans. David's diaries reminds us where we come from and makes us wonder how the hell we ended up here.
August 3, 2023
Artista polifacètic (pintor, fotògraf, assagista), en aquests diaris que abracen des dels 17 anys fins als 37 (quan mor de sida) Wojnarowicz s'obre en canal per mostrar-nos la connexió entre art, activisme i dissidències sexuals que ell considera fonamental en tot el que fa. Potser esperava una mica més de reflexió política, però els diaris prenen una altra via més personal i posen més el focus en la cartografia interior: sentiments, experiències viscudes, vitalisme explosiu, sense frens, mentre intenta obrir-se pas com artista en el New York en ebullició de finals dels 70-80s. Són molt protagonistes les seves trobades sexuals amn desconeguts als molls del riu Hudson, les drogues, les amistats, la crítica al poder i a una societat nord-americana cada cop més conservadora després del miratge de la contracultura i els 60-70: són els anys de Reagan. I, finalment, la decepció, la foscor i la presa de consciència de la mort quan arriba la sida i s'emporta amics, amants i, finalment, a ell mateix.
Molt sincer, directe, lúcid. Miraré de recuperar alguna cosa més de l'obra assagística de l'autor perquè m'ha semblat una veu molt interessant.
"¿Por qué tantos idiotas a lo largo de todas las épocas, por qué el freno a los impulsos, la aceleración del corazón en tantas ciudades, por qué el comienzo y el fin de los deseos salvajes, por qué el brillo en los ojos va perdiéndose con el tiempo (...), por qué nunca se da el sentimiento constante y furioso de amar para siempre y en cualquier parte, por qué las naciones y las fronteras (...), por qué estos finales, estos tránsitos, por qué?."
Molt sincer, directe, lúcid. Miraré de recuperar alguna cosa més de l'obra assagística de l'autor perquè m'ha semblat una veu molt interessant.
"¿Por qué tantos idiotas a lo largo de todas las épocas, por qué el freno a los impulsos, la aceleración del corazón en tantas ciudades, por qué el comienzo y el fin de los deseos salvajes, por qué el brillo en los ojos va perdiéndose con el tiempo (...), por qué nunca se da el sentimiento constante y furioso de amar para siempre y en cualquier parte, por qué las naciones y las fronteras (...), por qué estos finales, estos tránsitos, por qué?."
December 23, 2024
so intense wow
October 28, 2026
way more cruising and way less art talk than i expected but still good lol
November 23, 2009
Sunlight drift over New Jersey cliffs illuminates sparse architecture and great warehouses and piers and ships all shapeless from the blinding show of sun making it all look like India with orange postal card skies and you expect a huge herd of cows to be flat-walking over the river surface---where's the Taj Mahal!?
I get carried away, huge tumble rush of glad-in-the-boots-up-to-the-eyes feeling . . .
Pleasure derived as much from the witnessing of lovely images as from any sexual embrace. Remembering how when I was younger and was rejected by the sturdy rogue men ten years older than me whom I met within the dark avenues of the river, how I came close to telling them it didn't matter, I had their images, their faces and bodies and all the associations in my head to go home at leisure and lay down upon the warm sheets of a summer room and lay my hand to myself and have them anyway.
They think destructiveness is anarchy. Given a window and told they can do whatever they want with it they would more often break it. There's no imagination in that.
The only hero I have or can think of is the monkey cosmonaut in the Russian capsule that got excited in space and broke loose from his restraints and began smashing the control board. The flight had to be aborted.
I get carried away, huge tumble rush of glad-in-the-boots-up-to-the-eyes feeling . . .
Pleasure derived as much from the witnessing of lovely images as from any sexual embrace. Remembering how when I was younger and was rejected by the sturdy rogue men ten years older than me whom I met within the dark avenues of the river, how I came close to telling them it didn't matter, I had their images, their faces and bodies and all the associations in my head to go home at leisure and lay down upon the warm sheets of a summer room and lay my hand to myself and have them anyway.
They think destructiveness is anarchy. Given a window and told they can do whatever they want with it they would more often break it. There's no imagination in that.
The only hero I have or can think of is the monkey cosmonaut in the Russian capsule that got excited in space and broke loose from his restraints and began smashing the control board. The flight had to be aborted.
November 23, 2010
There was always a New York that people either didn't want to acknowledge was there or were drawn to for all the most superficial of reasons, and contrary to popular belief is still there, driven always further into hiding by our encroachers. David lived there. Even when he was on a wilderness retreat, or in France or San Francisco. And he wrote of it casually but always with a lyric descriptive quality that never seemed forced. Struggling not with the creative process itself but to feel recognized and validated for his part in it. There were the men he hustled with to get by, and there were the ones he truly cared for and wrote about with the same openness of a teenager experiencing their first love - I got the sense that all the horrors described in "7 Miles A Second" were never able to kill off that part in him, even if AIDS and government neglect eventually killed off his physical body.
May 6, 2022
Wherever a rage persists that is as pure as the love it is founded upon, David will be talked about and remembered.
January 22, 2025
david my beloved .. me habría enamorado de ti
January 23, 2025
Terminé el libro caminando por el Cristina Enea. Subía una cuesta y empecé a notar mis piernas cansadas. Me costaba leer las últimas palabras del libro mientras hacía el esfuerzo subir el muslo, estirar el gemelo y posar el pie de nuevo.
Ha habido algo muy físico que me ha atravesado durante la lectura; la muerte que la invade, la enfermedad, la conciencia de aquello que significa el tiempo o incluso la duda sobre su verdadera importancia. "Si se pudiesen explicar qué pueden darle o significarle esos doce años a una persona más allá de suponer la continuación del caminar a tientas por un hogar a oscuras, entonces podría entender y promulgar el deseo de vivir por encima de los tristes gestos de la actividad humana que rechaza el concepto de la muerte. Supongo que en algún punto siento que esos doce años no ofrecen particularidad alguna salvo la de sostener la abstracción emocional de lo que es la muerte por doce años más y alejarse de esa muerte contra la que lucha constantemente nuestra estructura social creando distracciones, infinitas distracciones".
Leer este libro es acercarse a lo que la pérdida de una voz significa, una voz que a medida que se apaga evidencia aquellos imposibles que el lenguaje jamás podrá llegar a atrapar.
Ha habido algo muy físico que me ha atravesado durante la lectura; la muerte que la invade, la enfermedad, la conciencia de aquello que significa el tiempo o incluso la duda sobre su verdadera importancia. "Si se pudiesen explicar qué pueden darle o significarle esos doce años a una persona más allá de suponer la continuación del caminar a tientas por un hogar a oscuras, entonces podría entender y promulgar el deseo de vivir por encima de los tristes gestos de la actividad humana que rechaza el concepto de la muerte. Supongo que en algún punto siento que esos doce años no ofrecen particularidad alguna salvo la de sostener la abstracción emocional de lo que es la muerte por doce años más y alejarse de esa muerte contra la que lucha constantemente nuestra estructura social creando distracciones, infinitas distracciones".
Leer este libro es acercarse a lo que la pérdida de una voz significa, una voz que a medida que se apaga evidencia aquellos imposibles que el lenguaje jamás podrá llegar a atrapar.
September 27, 2021
Thought-provoking insight into the experiences that underlie his work. Quite lyrical but tempered with some v raw accounts of hustling & his childhood.
Particularly interesting account about his experience of solitude and loss of friendships during his final years whilst dealing with AIDS.
Particularly interesting account about his experience of solitude and loss of friendships during his final years whilst dealing with AIDS.
February 10, 2018
I read In The Shadow of the American Dream in my early 20s, and found it out on a random shelve at the local library. I carried it with me for months before finally returning it. Now I own a copy, and dip into it at least once a year. As a teen runaway, I found Wojnarowicz's diaries so compelling, especially his longing for home - whether an actual place, a lover, or a nameless body - and the aimlessness that comes from roaming around to try to find a space in the world. There are bittersweet renderings of love that are drawn out of raw and often broken moments - fragments of love affairs, sexual encounters, even art making and writing. I cherish this book immensely, perhaps more so that I found it at a time when I needed his voice. It is one of those books I'd want to run into a burning building to save.
Another reviewer mentioned they wanted to see the diaries in full, and I would echo that as my only criticism. I want to read every entry - no matter how fragmented. I also love seeing the random drawings and photographs that Wojnarowicz embedded within the pages. You see him develop creative thoughts and artistic ideas, as well as the comings and goings of his lovers and his daily life. I could have read every entry.
Another reviewer mentioned they wanted to see the diaries in full, and I would echo that as my only criticism. I want to read every entry - no matter how fragmented. I also love seeing the random drawings and photographs that Wojnarowicz embedded within the pages. You see him develop creative thoughts and artistic ideas, as well as the comings and goings of his lovers and his daily life. I could have read every entry.
September 12, 2018
i had to return this to the library before i finished it completely, but i read through the majority of the essays. i loved it so much, especially the entries at the beginning from when he was younger, his stories of being stranded on an island at summer camp as a kid in particular. his voice here is gentler, funnier, and more conversational. dont get me wrong, i love his intensity but i also love the side of him he shows here <3
February 9, 2022
Cuando lo más hondo está dentro de uno y ni siquiera ahi puede hacerse pie. David escribe de una manera formidable y genial, retrata una época con la irreverencia de Burroughs y lo acompaña con una vida dura, una historia que enternece por su crudeza. Y aunque poco habla de su arte, si ahonda de sus procesos sentimentales, de lo maravilloso que es sentirse solo y lo miserable que uno puede sentirse sin ninguna compañía más que la de uno mismo.
Leer este diario es ahondar en ese vacío.
Leer este diario es ahondar en ese vacío.
October 25, 2026
Well, sometimes … well … because I have a lot of things that I love and that I respond to, and that I think about and care about and most of the people I meet … most of the people I know, even though I like them and have good times with them, they don’t think about the same things or else they don’t talk about them, share the same concerns about them that I do. Most of the people I run into are very superficial, and because I have this whole area of myself I can’t share or talk about or find someone who feels the same as I do, because of that and because I don’t want to lose that part of myself, I just get distant. I feel so different from most people I know …
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I have this sad heart because of what might well have been, no longer possible, and now what might possibly be affected by this letter, this gift but regardless, I give it up to him with a true feeling in my heart, a real sense expressed and I don’t think negativity could possibly come from up-front emotions regardless of the range and the disquieting fact that we hardly know one another at all
------------------------------------
I felt tense and beautiful and vulnerable and sad. I thought of plane crashes and endings, the bloodlessness of my once loving arms, a deep sleep something warm and enveloping to make me forget
------------------------------------
Gives me this strange perspective on New Wave characters. Previously have gone to clubs and just enjoyed myself. But to clean up after these people is another story. Suddenly New Wave is boring and repetitive and predictable. As Arthur said, These people are really like strict conservatives practicing their idea of what it is to have freedom. No imagination. Limited as they are, freedom can only be exercised with destructive actions. They think destructiveness is anarchy. Given a window and told they can do whatever they want with it they would more often break it. There’s no imagination in that. How is it really anarchistic? An anarchist would probably say, What window? An artist or someone with imagination would at least paint or draw on it
------------------------------------
I’m standing there trying to talk to him, maybe to give him something in the form of words. If energy disperses and merges with everything around us can it immediately know my thoughts?… So I try to speak, to tell him something maybe helpful in case he’s afraid or confused or needs a tool. I want to talk about light, move towards the light, move towards warmth, but the words tip out of my mouth and immediately I know there’s no meaning to them, to have meaning they have to have necessity, but they haven’t that, I know, he already knows all this. I know he’s beyond it already. It’s maybe me that needs reassurance. I open my mouth to form words to talk, all I can do is raise my hands from my sides in helplessness and say, I need some sort of grace, and water flows from my head.
------------------------------------
I won’t grow old and maybe I want to. Maybe nothing can save me. Maybe all my dreams as a kid and as a young guy have fallen down to their knees. Inside my head I wished for years that I could separate into ten different people to give each person I loved a part of myself forever and also have some left over to drift across landscapes and maybe even to go into death or areas that were deadly and have enough of me to survive the death of one or two of me—this was what I thought appropriate for all my desires and I never figured out how to rearrange it all and now I’m in danger of losing the only one of me that is around. I’m in danger of losing my life and what gesture can convey or stop this possibility? What gesture of hands or mind can stop my death? Nothing, and that saddens me.
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Should I count backwards like the Mayans so I never get older? Will the moon in the sky listen to my whispers as I count away?
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Rich people live there; they see sights the rest of us don’t see. The news for them is and will continue to be good. They are very proud of their armies halfway around the world and the work they are doing. They are proud of themselves for how they have edited their view, their lives, their neighbors, us down below. They hear very little of our lives, they hear little of our hollers our screams our hunger our choking.
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The agitated man says an obvious prayer. Will his prayer keep the plane from plummeting? I make a decision that I don’t have anything or anyone to pray to. I wonder if that means I am the only one who won’t survive a crash.
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This is the problem with making plans that extend into the future with others. It’s an almost futile gesture because it assumes a shape and structure in emptiness. It builds a psychic house that can elongate into what has never happened and to trust it is to be surprised by its arrival or to be darkened by its failure. At moments I wish to be alone but it’s too complicated and I’m disgusted by the fact that I can’t disappear and that all of this remains so constant.
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I’m disappearing but not fast enough
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somewhere in my head I wonder at whether another human can actually touch me deeply as I seem to need at this point in my life
------------------------------------
I have this sad heart because of what might well have been, no longer possible, and now what might possibly be affected by this letter, this gift but regardless, I give it up to him with a true feeling in my heart, a real sense expressed and I don’t think negativity could possibly come from up-front emotions regardless of the range and the disquieting fact that we hardly know one another at all
------------------------------------
I felt tense and beautiful and vulnerable and sad. I thought of plane crashes and endings, the bloodlessness of my once loving arms, a deep sleep something warm and enveloping to make me forget
------------------------------------
Gives me this strange perspective on New Wave characters. Previously have gone to clubs and just enjoyed myself. But to clean up after these people is another story. Suddenly New Wave is boring and repetitive and predictable. As Arthur said, These people are really like strict conservatives practicing their idea of what it is to have freedom. No imagination. Limited as they are, freedom can only be exercised with destructive actions. They think destructiveness is anarchy. Given a window and told they can do whatever they want with it they would more often break it. There’s no imagination in that. How is it really anarchistic? An anarchist would probably say, What window? An artist or someone with imagination would at least paint or draw on it
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I’m standing there trying to talk to him, maybe to give him something in the form of words. If energy disperses and merges with everything around us can it immediately know my thoughts?… So I try to speak, to tell him something maybe helpful in case he’s afraid or confused or needs a tool. I want to talk about light, move towards the light, move towards warmth, but the words tip out of my mouth and immediately I know there’s no meaning to them, to have meaning they have to have necessity, but they haven’t that, I know, he already knows all this. I know he’s beyond it already. It’s maybe me that needs reassurance. I open my mouth to form words to talk, all I can do is raise my hands from my sides in helplessness and say, I need some sort of grace, and water flows from my head.
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I won’t grow old and maybe I want to. Maybe nothing can save me. Maybe all my dreams as a kid and as a young guy have fallen down to their knees. Inside my head I wished for years that I could separate into ten different people to give each person I loved a part of myself forever and also have some left over to drift across landscapes and maybe even to go into death or areas that were deadly and have enough of me to survive the death of one or two of me—this was what I thought appropriate for all my desires and I never figured out how to rearrange it all and now I’m in danger of losing the only one of me that is around. I’m in danger of losing my life and what gesture can convey or stop this possibility? What gesture of hands or mind can stop my death? Nothing, and that saddens me.
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Should I count backwards like the Mayans so I never get older? Will the moon in the sky listen to my whispers as I count away?
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Rich people live there; they see sights the rest of us don’t see. The news for them is and will continue to be good. They are very proud of their armies halfway around the world and the work they are doing. They are proud of themselves for how they have edited their view, their lives, their neighbors, us down below. They hear very little of our lives, they hear little of our hollers our screams our hunger our choking.
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The agitated man says an obvious prayer. Will his prayer keep the plane from plummeting? I make a decision that I don’t have anything or anyone to pray to. I wonder if that means I am the only one who won’t survive a crash.
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This is the problem with making plans that extend into the future with others. It’s an almost futile gesture because it assumes a shape and structure in emptiness. It builds a psychic house that can elongate into what has never happened and to trust it is to be surprised by its arrival or to be darkened by its failure. At moments I wish to be alone but it’s too complicated and I’m disgusted by the fact that I can’t disappear and that all of this remains so constant.
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I’m disappearing but not fast enough
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somewhere in my head I wonder at whether another human can actually touch me deeply as I seem to need at this point in my life
April 23, 2021
I started off very lukewarm, the early diaries and juvenile and rambling. But as we gore with Wojnarowicz we see him come into his voice. The way he observes and experiences is world, even the raw sexual encounters with strangers shows the depth of his soul and his writing talent. From lust to confusion to anger I felt the electrifying air that was New York in the 80s and 90s.
June 9, 2021
Sin palabras.
July 24, 2021
A partir de ahora pensaré en Wojnarowicz como una estrella que asoló su luz tras conocer la penumbra emocional de los embarcaderos
June 3, 2024
so much of life.
February 3, 2023
Was it two years ago now when I first read Close to the Knives? It gave me a wretching feeling of disgust when I first picked it up, beautiful but harrowing, difficult to read. It is worth your time if you haven’t read it, and prompted me to read the accounts of other people who lived and died in the AIDS crisis. Herve Guibert offers my favorite accounts, but Wojnarowicz’s are far sharper and filled with intricate sensory details. The two share much in terms of how they write and how they see the world, but David is frankly the better writer, less enjoyable but has a profound and singular way of encountering the world.
The selected journal entries collected in this survey a broad portion of his life, starting from when he was 16 or 17. He was a weird kid, which I loved to read - it starts with him on some sort of camping expedition where he is on an island trying to survive alone with minimal counselor supervision. He hates it. When he’s finally rescued, he writes “Thank Swami!” It’s very endearing.
I’m not sure when he started hustling - had he already at this point? It’s sickening to imagine the kind of men that would prey on this innocence, but the journals skip five years ahead and that’s just life for him now. He goes abroad, he falls in love, his thoughts mature into a sophisticated worldview. His greatest gift as a writer is his ability to capture sensory details into words - I think I prefer his writing over his visual art, but without his eye for the visual his writing wouldn’t have the same impact. Eventually, he returns to New York and writes vivid depictions of the sex he has. Somewhere along the line, his beautiful depictions of the world begin to sour into doubt - it’s around when he mentions when he’s working at Danceteria and it gets raided by the cops. Reagan becomes president.
The most pivotal point in his career, when his art finally gains traction, has few entries. Peter Hujar was very close, but the only details this offers is when they meet, and skips ahead 7 years after he dies. The journals are deeply bifurcated into two worlds, one before and one after AIDS becomes known, feared, and felt. It’s the same David, but two sides with a missing middle.
I am grateful that he took beautiful notes of his life. He’s a thrilling writer, and when he talks about how he experiences the world, it feels more real than almost every other writer. But if you haven’t read him, I do recommend reading Close to the Knives or Waterfront Journals first.
History has catalogued David as an artist of the AIDS crisis. Having read more of his work, this pigeonholes him in a way that is almost unfair - he has created profound work about AIDS, but like Herve Guibert, he has also made beautiful work about life before it. Like Sarah Schulman insists in her book Let the Record Show, I think there is a lot of value in knowing these pivotal artists of that crisis before their work on AIDS - it’s of equal value, and expresses their humanity better.
The selected journal entries collected in this survey a broad portion of his life, starting from when he was 16 or 17. He was a weird kid, which I loved to read - it starts with him on some sort of camping expedition where he is on an island trying to survive alone with minimal counselor supervision. He hates it. When he’s finally rescued, he writes “Thank Swami!” It’s very endearing.
I’m not sure when he started hustling - had he already at this point? It’s sickening to imagine the kind of men that would prey on this innocence, but the journals skip five years ahead and that’s just life for him now. He goes abroad, he falls in love, his thoughts mature into a sophisticated worldview. His greatest gift as a writer is his ability to capture sensory details into words - I think I prefer his writing over his visual art, but without his eye for the visual his writing wouldn’t have the same impact. Eventually, he returns to New York and writes vivid depictions of the sex he has. Somewhere along the line, his beautiful depictions of the world begin to sour into doubt - it’s around when he mentions when he’s working at Danceteria and it gets raided by the cops. Reagan becomes president.
The most pivotal point in his career, when his art finally gains traction, has few entries. Peter Hujar was very close, but the only details this offers is when they meet, and skips ahead 7 years after he dies. The journals are deeply bifurcated into two worlds, one before and one after AIDS becomes known, feared, and felt. It’s the same David, but two sides with a missing middle.
I am grateful that he took beautiful notes of his life. He’s a thrilling writer, and when he talks about how he experiences the world, it feels more real than almost every other writer. But if you haven’t read him, I do recommend reading Close to the Knives or Waterfront Journals first.
History has catalogued David as an artist of the AIDS crisis. Having read more of his work, this pigeonholes him in a way that is almost unfair - he has created profound work about AIDS, but like Herve Guibert, he has also made beautiful work about life before it. Like Sarah Schulman insists in her book Let the Record Show, I think there is a lot of value in knowing these pivotal artists of that crisis before their work on AIDS - it’s of equal value, and expresses their humanity better.
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August 8, 2026me siento en la mierda. ha sido terminar de leerlo y me ha empezado a cosquillear todo el cuerpo. estoy demasiado conmocionade como para emitir un juicio crítico, cosa que creo que también está fuera de lugar.
me siento súper afortunade de haberle leído. sus diarios son uno de los primeros libros que he leído en referencia a la epidemia del VIH/sida como tal, y me ha afectado a tal nivel que me ha supuesto un cambio de paradigma en la forma de observar y entender todo. creo que todo el mundo debería de leer los diarios de alguien alguna vez en la vida, por la compasión que despiertan tan profundamente. es un ejercicio precioso. wojnarowicz fue una persona increíblemente humana, hermosa. creo que estoy enamorade de él. no idealizo su vida y acción —despues de leer estos diarios sería imposible hacerlo—, sino justo al contrario. y precisamente por eso siento ahora una comprensión muchísimo más profunda de lo que fue esa epidemia, y de lo que significó: la confirmación de que algunas vidas valen menos y que si pueden, nos dejarán morir por ello sin inmutarse siquiera.
hay tanto que decir... sobre la belleza con la que veía el mundo, siendo consciente de su espanto. sobre la facilidad que tenía para transmitir emociones y sentimientos tan complejos. sobre todo el sufrimiento que eso le supuso, pero que al mismo tiempo le permitió entender la vida de una forma tan profunda. realmente vivió. sufrió, y no sé hasta qué punto es naive o irrespetuoso decir esto, pero realmente vivió.
las ultimas sesente páginas han sido dolorosísimas precisamente por la forma en la que te transmite su agonía. la entrada de la muerte de peter hujar... uf. no tengo palabras.
"Si la energía se dispersa y surge en todas partes a nuestro alrededor, ¿podrá saber en este mismo momento cuáles son mis pensamientos...? Así que intento hablar, decirle algo que tal vez necesite escuchar si es que está asustado o confuso o necesita que alguien le dé una mano (...)"
se me queda en el pecho una sensación de querer llenarte de besitos la cara y sostenerlo entre los brazos, ya dormido.
me siento súper afortunade de haberle leído. sus diarios son uno de los primeros libros que he leído en referencia a la epidemia del VIH/sida como tal, y me ha afectado a tal nivel que me ha supuesto un cambio de paradigma en la forma de observar y entender todo. creo que todo el mundo debería de leer los diarios de alguien alguna vez en la vida, por la compasión que despiertan tan profundamente. es un ejercicio precioso. wojnarowicz fue una persona increíblemente humana, hermosa. creo que estoy enamorade de él. no idealizo su vida y acción —despues de leer estos diarios sería imposible hacerlo—, sino justo al contrario. y precisamente por eso siento ahora una comprensión muchísimo más profunda de lo que fue esa epidemia, y de lo que significó: la confirmación de que algunas vidas valen menos y que si pueden, nos dejarán morir por ello sin inmutarse siquiera.
hay tanto que decir... sobre la belleza con la que veía el mundo, siendo consciente de su espanto. sobre la facilidad que tenía para transmitir emociones y sentimientos tan complejos. sobre todo el sufrimiento que eso le supuso, pero que al mismo tiempo le permitió entender la vida de una forma tan profunda. realmente vivió. sufrió, y no sé hasta qué punto es naive o irrespetuoso decir esto, pero realmente vivió.
las ultimas sesente páginas han sido dolorosísimas precisamente por la forma en la que te transmite su agonía. la entrada de la muerte de peter hujar... uf. no tengo palabras.
"Si la energía se dispersa y surge en todas partes a nuestro alrededor, ¿podrá saber en este mismo momento cuáles son mis pensamientos...? Así que intento hablar, decirle algo que tal vez necesite escuchar si es que está asustado o confuso o necesita que alguien le dé una mano (...)"
se me queda en el pecho una sensación de querer llenarte de besitos la cara y sostenerlo entre los brazos, ya dormido.
October 5, 2023
In the Shadow of the American Dream serves as a great companion piece to Wojnarowicz’s 1991 memoir, Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration. Wojnarowicz’s greatest contribution to this world, besides perhaps being alive, was his incredibly lucid writing voice that was tragic and innocent all at once. The reader can expect the same vulnerability in every page of this book if they’re familiar with his memoir. Many of the journal entries in this book appear in CTTK unchanged from its original form. We begin at a childhood sleep away camp, journey through his eventual reverence in the East Village Art Scene, and finally we arrive at his last journal entry before he died of AIDS related illness. I am doing research on the East Village Art Scene, and turned to ITSOFAD for additional context of Wojnarowicz’s New York. Each entry is extremely detailed. Like, excruciatingly detailed. Recommending diary entries to any fan of someone with a celebrity status feels kind of silly— surely only someone who has somewhat of an interest in that individual would pick up the book to begin with. I think that CTTK is a sufficient enough read for anyone looking to familiarize themselves with Wojnarowicz as a writer, especially since much of the writing here appears in his memoir word for word. It’s what you’d expect— a ton of (excellent) sex writing, some drug experimentation, the longing for connection and community, the AIDS epidemic. Most interestingly was the deeper insight to his and photographer Peter Hujar’s relationship. A young David becomes entranced by Peter, twenty years his senior, who is dismissive of David’s now-famous Rimbaud photo series. Their dynamic was interesting and his emotional dependence on Hujar makes more sense.
This was longer than I thought it would be—I was expecting two run-on sentences, not an entire paragraphs worth!
This was longer than I thought it would be—I was expecting two run-on sentences, not an entire paragraphs worth!
October 19, 2018
After seeing the Whitney Museum's fabulous exhibit of late artist David Wojanrowicz's work called "History Keeps Me Awake At Night," I was intrigued and wanted to learn more about the man himself. These diaries give the reader an intimate glimpse into his private life, encapsulating his hustler days, his nighttime cruising at the Hudson piers, and his mindset during his decline due to AIDS. I found his writing to be heavy, verbose, brilliant, and a bit depressing. I can't help but feel both pity and awe at the raw emotions on display. The diaries were edited judiciously, although I think my interest would have been more piqued if I'd started with his memoir "Close to the Knives" instead. However, I acknowledge David's remarkable and visionary contribution to the art world and to his valuable voice as an AIDS-afflicted gay man living in New York City in a time of crisis.
May 27, 2024
Reading these journal entries by David Wojnarowicz almost felt too intimate. Reading his innermost thoughts and experiences felt like I was looking at something private. But, I understand he also really wanted to be published one day.
These journals show how his childhood influenced his thoughts on sex and intimacy, and how he changed as he moved through life. He speaks frankly on his feelings of depression and sadness. There are several quotes that I feel could have been taken from my brain.
David had a way with words. They have seeped into my mind and honestly, I wish selfishly he had written more that could be shared with a world. It’s horrific that an entire generation of people died who could have changed the world.
The ending of these journals is so abrupt too - just like David’s life. It really gave me pause, as it should.
These journals show how his childhood influenced his thoughts on sex and intimacy, and how he changed as he moved through life. He speaks frankly on his feelings of depression and sadness. There are several quotes that I feel could have been taken from my brain.
David had a way with words. They have seeped into my mind and honestly, I wish selfishly he had written more that could be shared with a world. It’s horrific that an entire generation of people died who could have changed the world.
The ending of these journals is so abrupt too - just like David’s life. It really gave me pause, as it should.
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