It may be that something very essential was resolved for me that fateful day years ago when, attending to my first competent interpretation of a german literary text, I was swept by the unforgetable effect of the so-called association of sensibility, whereby concepts merge with emotion, are apprehended emotionaly, poetically almost. In a way I got a hold of some cognitive skeleton key, something with which, further cultivated, I could make sense of the world, handle things effectively, die dinge zurechtmachen...

A large part of my current set of frustrations is most certainly my desire to to find overemphasized the role played by european aesthetics in american novels and stories, and so bring to the experience of reading such works a sense of universally shared preoccupations where these are leider! mostly eurocentric ones. I find myself both dazzled and bored by The Adventures of Augie March, the boredom created by the wearying insistance on the primacy of narrative, while the bedazzlement is indefatigably wrung out of this by the uncanniness of the genial bellovian style.

Trueber regnerischer tag. Der selbstmord von D.F.W. beschaeftigt mich, aber nicht uebermaessig. Wozu? das ueberbieten von spitzfindigkeiten wurde ihm auf die dauer langweilig. Wahrscheinlich. Vielleicht hatte er sich endlich durchschaut und ueber das erste erschrecken nicht hinwegsetzen koennen...dies mit kaltem zynismus tropfend (in lieu of tears) gesagt.

The coffee pot is at my elbow while I read long sections of Der Vefuehrer out loud. I must admit to feeling very connected with this novel. almost sensually so. Nowadays despite much effort I can't seem to establish not to say the same feelings with english of french writing, but really no feeling at all...it leaves cold, unberuehrt. Es waere bloed wieder darauf naeher einzugehen.

Still reading Der verfuehrer from Weiss, and I must admit it is getting much more interesting than it promised as I was getting through the first dozen of its short chapters, though, not to appear apathetic, my reserves of interest were in fact largely spent elsewhere, on a couple of other books, namely the Way to Wigan Pier and Flags in the Dust, the latter holding me in practice to a very slow, unchaffing, thoroughly degustative pace. It occurs to me once more how much this exclusive trundling diet of german can blight the once very rank spreading of my thoughts about things in general and more curiously this effect was perhaps what was most aimed for...aber dieses jetziges gefuehl der freiheit ist sehr kostbar.

When I go a little while without coffee, I can't get away from the very distinct notion that if I only drank some I would be allright, infinetely more settled at least. Yet I cannot remember feeling this way in my pre-coffee days...the consciousness of this need does seem sharpened by the knowledge of the means to satisfy it. Before it was just a more vague restlesness, I suppose.

Just got through The First Lady Chatterley. Began last weekend Der Verfuerer from E. Weiss. After such a steady exclusive diet of German, of this endless tensive uncompromising meandering, the nice confortable drift of english prose.