June 10, 2013
Fairly crappy room on the 4th floor of the Hotel Russell. It’s always a gamble here. Sometimes the rooms are modest, sometimes spectacular, and they seem always to be the same price. I do face the Square near the top of the trees.
Unusually uncomfortable flight from New York to Frankfurt, during which my thoughts dwelt on the shadow of things, the end stop of the moment, the uncertainty of this and that, which sounds tragic to say and was miserable at the time, but had the hypnotic effect of helping me to sleep. Got to London early and the Russell had my room ready, which was miraculous, and I settled in and hiked to the British Museum, drinking at pubs as I went. I did not have my notebook, which was a kind of experiment, for I seldom go anywhere just to be and observe and not to record those observations.
I miss Lincoln. I could have seen it again.
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