Sunday, November 12:
Hohenschwangau.
Thus it sounds from one tower and is answered from another: the clearest sky, the sun golden; the castle gleams — That is magic! — Nothing, nothing is more inventive than love: to no ill-disposed man can so many ideas occur for the damaging of another, as he who loves has for the delight of the loved one. —
My Cosima! Who thinks today that the daemon must be paid for this beauty! — When I look like this out of my grand Crown-Princely window at the beautiful country: hear Lohengrin’s greetings reverberating at me from the battlements, feel the joy, the gratitude of a kind King which I earn myself by a warm word, — I think of the wonderful woman who lovingly awaits me there, — who should fancy me not to be upon that peak which would put me beyond the reach of even the daemon? —