Saturday, July 12:
R. had a good night and looks so well that all my worry that he might have caught cold is removed. He is still very much occupied with C. Frantz, whose book he is literally studying. However, over coffee he listens to me telling him things from The Arabian Nights, which I am now reading with Siegfried. Yesterday I finished the story of Zobeida and began the story of Amina, which I today complete. Our conversation leads us to the Arabs' sense of form; R. says that in their nomadic life they found time to take pleasure in someone saying things well!
We attempt a walk, R. and I, but we soon return home. I feel very languid. In the evening we chat about Bismarck; R. reads his latest speech to us: still nothing but vulgar bragging. I wish one could forget all these things. This morning, as we parted, R. said, “I wonder whether God loved the world as much as we love each other?” ...