Tuesday, October 19:
R. had a good night. He works while I look at apartments, and when I return, on the stroke of 12, I find him still at it. Schiller and Goethe, the latter a poet who based himself on physics, the former on metaphysics.
In the morning I had attempted to defend Titian's kind old God, which brought jokes down on my head. Over coffee R. came back to the Indians and maintained that all other civilizations were like planetoids in comparison with this one great sun.
Short walk with R. on the Riva dei Schiavoni. Tristan in the evening; R. sings Marke and everything else up to the end. His voice is wonderfully clear, and on "wohin Tristan geht" I feel as if my heart will burst.