'Ts-been unseasonably wet. Already we're (12") more than four inches over our usual (8") yearly average rainfall for this date. Lichens have turned every exposed wood surface into psychedelic art, fluorescent yellow-green vying with glowing green-grey. The smell of roses everywhere is, like that of the many herbal sachets hung in the curtains of a Dowager Empress's bed, "almost nauseating till you get used to it." I understand that Princess Der Ling has written more extensively of Tzu-Hsi in a book called 'Old Buddha,' and this I have got, by hook or crook, to read. One interesting, indeed arresting, discovery that I have made is that Tzu-Hsi's birthday, November 29th, 1835, was just one day before Mark Twain's birthday (11/30/'35). How bizarre is that? Polar opposites, so to speak (or, it must be said, bi-polar).

Yesterday, with Kristen, knocked down another Handel organ concerto, a sweet, brilliant Haydn symphony in G Major (not the Oxford), and a bit of 'Zauberfloete.' Desultory talk--We were both, apart from the stimulus of the music, feeling rather tired on account of the rain. Thence round to Darlene's who treated me to some of Kimchee's finest and a glass of chardonnay. D. says she's going for a Master's in Italy and Greece, and I'm happy to see that that is very likely what she will do.