Friday, April 12:
R. works out his article; at lunch he says he will write it, but to him it is only the time spent on his true work which is really sacred, even if a day’s work produces just a single modulation or turn.
In the afternoon he goes out; in the evening Parsifal for my father, from the entrance into the Temple onward. A most remarkable, unforgettable sight, R. and my father, the greatness of life, the greatness of withdrawal from it!
After my father has gone, R. speaks Goethe’s lines from Faust: “Man kann nicht stets das Fremde meiden, das Gute liegt oft gar so fern; ein echter deutscher Mann kann keinen Franzmann leiden, doch seine Weine trinkt er gern.” He admires the lengthening of the third line and says: “What feeling for rhythm that shows! In the excitement of the moment it must be spoken very quickly, following the more sober preceding line. But this line is always spoken with a senselessly solemn accentuation.”