Monday, November 20:
R. had a wretched night and a very wretched morning; not until nearly midday does he reach the point of eating a little breakfast with me. He spends the whole day by himself, reading newspapers and the history of the Persians. Among the former are two copies of the Allgemeine Zeitung, brought by my father, which contain a review of “Religion and Art” by a Herr K[ö]stlin. R. comments to me about it: According to this, one is understood only by the people who take one’s part, and objectivity is an absurdity. “This gentleman thinks I am a vegetarian and that this explains my article. On the other hand, people who do nothing but echo one’s views are offensive. The right ones are those who have convinced themselves that one never says anything out of mere willfulness, whereas in all the others it is always the will speaking. Stein, for example, is one who has convinced himself about me.”
Later in the evening, when I go to him, he reads to me the passage in Gobineau’s book about chronology, taking great delight in his intellect, but excitement is bad for him, and his spasm returns.