For some time feeling very uncommunicative.

The working concept of time is an intrusion upon human existence. An attempt, I should rather say, to sequentialize the impenetrable dimensions of realisations, to keep the schizophrenic violence of any moment's (what is a moment? should I not say the full force of every moment? the gale raging without our reasoning artificial selves) pressure from taking over our life by submiting our consciousness of it to some sense of process. To disambiguate existence.

Reading Voss from Patrick White.

Abandonned for a while the lecture of La duchesse de langeais, its intolerable narrowness, its mechanical reasoning. Could not recover the least trace of the feeling left me by Le Colonel Chabert.

Also reading Der Wanderer from Hermann Lenz. Much delighted by it. The german absorbs, weighs the mind wonderfully, is an antidote for straying thoughts.