Up betimes, walked (marched, danced--Vivaldi on my portable CD player) here, the Hamilton Library, ten minutes before it opened; licit drugs (amphetamines) percolating through me, euphorizing, soothing, inspiring me, along with the lovely, cheerful music and the lovely, quiet, landscape of the upper Manoa Valley. When I've blogged here, done my 'mail, and looked into various intriguing matters on the internet, I'll head over to the Central Union Church, where, at 10:00, will begin the second of my now twice-weekly bridge sessions with my game and lively old millionairesses. Reading lately: More gay fiction (I do not say "gay and lesbian" fiction because lesbian fiction utterly and absolutely bores me to distraction, and as soon as I notice that the authoress is a woman, I skip it [with prejudice]); Diderot's short stories, with a delightul preface by one (female--it rarely matters in French literature) Ms. Didier; more compendious science fiction, in English of course (odd how the only French science fiction I've ever enjoyed was a French version of Ray Bradbury's sucky Martian Chronicles--It comes out plausibly elegant and not so sticky in French; acquiring virtues not its own from the mere fact of being written in French, in a manner not unlike the god-awful prose-poems of Baudelaire or the ghastly "American" effusions of Chateaubriand [not to mention the utter bilge and tripe of Francoise de Graffigny, merely bad in French, putrescent in English]).