He felt happy and at the same time sad. He had absolutely nothing to weep about, yet he was ready to weep. For what? For his past love? For the little princess? For his lost illusions?…For his hopes for the future?…Yes and no. The chief reason for his wanting to weep was a sudden acute sense of the terrible contrast between something infinitely great and illimitable existing within him, and the narrow material something which he, and even she, was. The contrast made his heart ache, and rejoiced him while she sang.

I have finished – amid interruptions – books one and two of War and Peace. I feel a bit let down by the translation (from the 1950s; “Pass me a cup of tea, old chap” etc); at times I know a certain passage or line stretches towards beauty and truth – but it doesn’t always get there. Still, beggars can’t be choosers – that I found the book here is surprising enough.

but i'm enjoying it. will write more when i'm through. some of the writing surprises me though; it's snappy and sharp, not elongated and classical as i somehow expected.

She rose and smoothed her hair which was, as usual, so extraordinarily smooth that it might have been made of one piece with her skull, and varnished.