At the moment, I’ve noticed that (probably as a reaction to all the planning I am required to do for the wedding) I have become somewhat intellectually light, or at any rate I’m no longer turning to writing and organizing and suggesting as if death were snapping at my heels, which for me is the equivalent of most people’s relaxation.
The book I have started three times now, Roth’s The Plot Against America, is failing to sink in; I am doing less work during the day than normally, and not experimenting or fooling around along tangents; Hat is receiving no more reviews, and I have not been watering my Small Beds. I suppose the bookshopping and murder-mystering of my stag weekend—which I am still writing up—might be cited as evidence against the above. But even that was passive entertainment in some ways. It’s all I can do to actually write about it.