Could it be that the reason I so much dislike William S. Burroughs is that I am so much like him? How obvious is that? It seems, I surmise, from Betty-Jean's perspective, the most obvious thing in the world. All right, Betty-Jean, but there is just this one little difference: The drugs I'm being oh so lucid and literary about are neither, ever, alcohol or heroin. There is a certain mentality (coarse-grained and hidebound) for whom all Drugs are Stupefacienti, so to say, stupifiying, and I would say that that is for the most part William S. Burrough's mentality also, given his avowed predilection for getting stupified, however damned lucid and literary he is about it. But you're right, Betty-Jean, there is this personal thing I have with Burroughs, something embarrassed and embarrassing, that prickles and nauseates--Make of it what you will.

Weather continuing fine, I weasled out of an engagement to help Friday scout out a campsite this afternoon. We've seen enough of one another the last couple of days; and frankly I (and my Cancer Ascendant) am a little frayed by Friday's unthinking gregariousness. But, funny, I can never disengage from Friday without hurting his feelings. So anyway, what I propose is to take my 'Orlando Furioso' down by the river, and sit in the shade and read. I'm making great progress, and enjoying it immensely: This is what Spenser was trying to do, I think: An interesting story, with engaging characters, well and wittily told--and what lovely, memorable verses!

Kristen and I played a lot of music yesterday, Haydn, Handel, and Bach; best, first, we began with the first Brandenburg concerto--which we never, usually, play--and wrung compliments even from Marianne (whose soul is quite dead to music) who happened on us just as we rendered quite an extatic version of the adagio second movement. It was funny watching her try to put words to the esthetic universe unexpectedly opening before her. All she could say was, "That...was...beautiful."