9:35 a.m. Stopping by the main library to blog, on my way to play bridge with the millionairesses at the Central Union Church (as I do, or loyally try to do every Tuesday and Thursday morning). I have read overnight, and am now returning, Robert Bernard Martin's With Friends Possessed, a biography of Edward FitzGerald, another other self--the woods are full of us homophile misogynist multi-talented ADD-types, once you let your intuitive serendipity start looking them up in the card catalog (had to send to the reserve stacks for this one--and there it all was). Embarrassing similarities (if I could be embarrassed): Same taste in music (we both like, and dislike Carmen for the same reasons), same indifference to cultural norms, same distaste for female literature, same rude sense of absolute entitlement, same irritating hobbyhorse teasing, same inability to know when we're overstepping our bounds. It's like I've found my twin and he is dead. Other than that, there are differences; a big one being that 'Old Fitz,' as Robert Browning called him, was a lot less physically clean than I am, and for all his much broader erudition, far more insular and less well traveled. It must have been a stinky time, because none of his close contemporaries seem to've detected what I over the scores of years smell about him.