Monday, December 30:
R. had a good night, which leads to a gentle and harmonious breakfast time. He devotes the morning to a fine letter to the King, which he reads to me after lunch. In the morning he said to me: “The press! The fact that one has made this word the symbol for writing reveals the spirit behind it. It is not the setting of the type which has become the symbol, but the clumsy object one runs over it.” He reflects on an alteration in his relationship with the Society of Patrons, and on a few words to introduce Wolzogen’s work on the German language, which he is now reading. A quotation from Schopenhauer amuses him greatly: “The lion takes a taste of me.”
We invite friend Wolzogen over for the evening and spend the time in conversation; but I notice that R. is somewhat tired, I see it in his speech.