Fièvre et brouillard, the only elements never discounted by myself, even unconsciously so, in literature and music, as in life, even in bad novels they make up for much else left wanting. La Passante du Sans-Souci. Not necessarily a bad book but suspect in that it comes so zu sagen à point, intervenes at a precise moment of existence, like the passante herself. In a way I suppose which reveals much about the neture of my particular existence, what I really act upon, the threadmill of the never varrying unconscious self, ever on the look out to reproduce the same situations: So what part is played by preparation, vorbereitung, in this I cannot say though there remains the clues here and there seen that some such process is at work and perhaps our entire lives are nothing else, as I've said before, than mere anticipation. This is a haunting thought.

Began last night Ein Fremdling from Hermann Lenz.