Up early, and in good humor, scampering too and fro with mind at ease; taking great care not to overburden the old brain, which might crumble without warning. ‘…and though the merriment was rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips: and this is the right sort of merriment, after all’ (Pickwick, p. 84). A rainy day, too, after an indeterminate dawn. Went to a lecture on Linear B; the lecturer was Italian and impressed upon all twelve students how difficult a syllabic script (such as Linear B) is.
Somehow found myself walking along Magdalen bridge, looking down at the uncertain green of the Cherwell; it was a color of such astonishing strangeness and beauty that I longed to stop and point it out to passers-by. Was it because of its strangeness, the lingering ripples of olive and emerald and jade, brushed with the new green of the leaves, that it was all of these things and yet none of them, that I thought it beautiful? Or was it simply that I was lonely, and wanted the sharing of it more than the thought itself? A notion.