A pot of basmati rice is slowly cooking on the stove. The finale to Schubert's Ninth booming behind me. The sound of it effectively counters the insisting tendency of silence to establish itself around me, which is the best listening condition that can be imagined. The silence which is made up of expectancy and, as such, rapidly distilled by the highest degree of attention, of attention pitched high up by the expectancy, the silence is soaked up by the music. So that the music is all silence and yet, all sound.

In my small red notebook I set down the visual elements of the present without the least tendency to discount them (or their importance) for they are the ferment of existence. With time however I note my erroding(?) relation to them and the ever increasing depth of their relation to one another made possible by the breaking down of their original apartness.

Heated discussion with last night about the importance of making large allowances for what some call the shortcomings of others, of the difficulty in dealing with the consequences of their so-called stupidity. He does not want to deal with it nor even admit the possibility of accepting it. I pointed out the impass of this situation, and he, being or seeming pulled up by this, gave in to the need to violently remonstrate about my inability to be the simple listener he always it seems to wish for in me. I countered that this was exactly the problem, his inability to take people as they are, that he could not expect reactions from me wich nothing allowed him to reasonably expect. But then I immediately reflected as I am used to doing that my reaction was exactly the one he expected and wished for in order to remonstrate. This got him more furious, but at this point I saw that the end was in sight. Like almost everyone he wants to justify his coming reactions and prepares the ground for them. an old trick that is played constantly. The impass of will power. Its need to cast ahead and look in a future back to the present to insure its effectiveness, a bridge, an abridgement of all present. What freedom I have enjoyed since discovevering for myself and seeing confirmed at every juncture the fictitious nature of the conditions of all action! It was my long sought out way out of the ligh pessimism that was mine naguère. I see through things much more easily and thus I have more patience, indeed an infite reserve of amused patience for the called shortcomings of others which so frustrate G. Classic transfer.

Found a used copy of William Corbett's Rural Rides yesterday, something else to look forward to. Today more of AMRAS which I will likely finish and certainly much progress will be made in L'Emploi du temps.