Friday, May 17:
My voice still gone. R. reads to me a nice letter from his friend Sulzer, with which is enclosed a curious poem. R. works; I spend the day in my room; R. tells me he has recomposed a whole passage.
In the evening he reads Renan’s Saint Paul to me; he now wants to read the complete series of these books. I recommend them all except for The Life of Jesus; his talent is insufficient for the Saviour.