From the journal of Jules Renard

The world should bring us pleasure; we owe it at least that much.

Reading Renard's journal last evening in Georgette's garden under the grape leaves, until dusk, until the front door is dark, the gravel gravel, the step stones are stones, and God is great. Then going inside and going to sleep.

Finally we are becoming like birds; there are too many of us to be counted.

The many things I will never be able to explain prosper and multiply. My interest in the villages of the Auvergne, for example-Solignant, Vodable, Saurier, Maureghoul-and my delight in discovering a museum of the pig in Tourzel. If I was asked to name a French village in the Auvergne I would name it "Unfathomable," and build a little house there I could come to on weekends.

The plan today? To follow the footsteps of Blaise Pascal and climb the Puy de Dome. Not for scientific but for philosophical purposes. The forecast is for extremely hot weather. The question: will I come back from the climb a different man? Or the same man, but tired, thirsty, gaining only a sunburn?

Once, standing in a library in Paris filled with great books, I felt surrounded by the work of authors who were whispering, and who had left one, possibly two whispers behind for further investigation,

Out walking in the countryside near St. Julien yesterday, I took as many steps as it takes to decide what to do with the rest of my life. Then I turned around and walked back to the village of Montaigut-le-Blanc to see what would happen there.