And so, limping like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, Friday fled early yesterday afternoon (past the the astonished and hostile surveillance of the insect powers at the front desk, thitherto unaware of his presence) in search of methedrine--much better for him than cocaine, which is all that's available, for the nonce, here at the Palace. So I wished him godspeed. We can only hope that his spider bite does not further ulcerate, or necrotize; though we imagine it will.

Kristen and I've been doing good, having given a fair account Monday afternoon of the 'Linz' and #39 in E Flat--Wagner called it 'the apotheosis of the dance' What a dumb-shit thing to call the most beautiful Haydn-like symphony in existence!