If I want books on gardening : a roomful.

Noir, in translation or in the original French ? Two roomfuls.

I want neither at the moment. As for comments, the nice ones feel nice, of course. Nasty ones sting, and indifference confuses, as always.

For now : finding my bearings and landing spots in an over-big house. Finding the way back into the story. To the question Novel : what is it I want to say ? I cast hexagram 32 in response. Endure. Constancy. All the usual, as usual.

To market with the family this morning. Lunch with them, then back to my own time.

Window open to the night, a sky full of stars. Why looking up at them feels so good, I don’t know. For the escape maybe, the sense of dimension and proportion.

There’s some life form in the attic – too heavy for a mouse, too stealthy for a rat. Stirs now and then during the night, as if readjusting (or dreaming) in its sleep.

The father came back late in the night from returning the borrowed car and receiving another in exchange.

A neighbor’s dog checks me out and leaves to ponder these newcomers in his life.

The three neighbors know we’re here. The fourth ? « L is over ninety now, » my hosts said. « Doesn’t move much from his doorstep anymore. When he does, he voices strong opinions we don’t share. We don’t want the details on his activities during the war and neither do you. If he bothers you, tell him to speak to his son. »

Bank balances: the father’s stands at sixty-eight centimes. The grandmother’s: zero.

For lunch, I’ll cook a lamb and eggplant stew with rice.