My parents seem to have found a beautiful apartment for F[elice Bauer] and me; I ran around for nothing one entire beautiful afternoon. I wonder whether they will lay me in my grave too, after a life made happy by their solicitude.
May 6, 1914
Happy day. Or at least a good morning.
I finished two books Emman lent me, Angels and Fugitives an anthology of poems by Emmanuel Torres and The Talking Tree: poems in prose a selection from seven books of Artur Lundkvist. I found the angels refreshing. I read most of them aloud relishing the dutiful music. The tree surprised me at first. The poems offered a surreal density of images, an attack on the rational no less. The rational mode being operative these days, I first resisted the project. Then, I accepted it as a sort of rest. Let the dogs of logic lie.
My mother's birthday is a few days away and the opening of classes a matter of weeks. And then, there's my trial.