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6 April 1952
Robert looks upset when I invite him to ride on to Rorschach. Perhaps he suspects a scheme that could unbalance things. Sitting in the smoking car, we hardly talk. He rolls fat cigarettes and puffs nervously. Eventually we begin hiking to Staad.
The gray sky and the earth flow gently into one another on the shores of the Bodensee. No boats, no people. We climb up and away to the village of Buchen; children and grownups at a confirmation ceremony. Palm Sunday mood of the country!
Robert leaves the Buchberg to our left—he's drawn to the quiet forest. Like a wild dog he roams ahead through the firs, the brooks, the underbrush, without a coat, leaning forward, his hands hanging, blue from the cold.
Eventually we arrive in Wienachten-Tobel, a station on the Rorschach-Heiden cog railway. In this lovely village we enjoy some coffee and try the strong Appenzeller cheese. His voice a croak, the pub owner, suffering from a tumor on the larynx, joins in with the usual talk about the weather, the vines, and the high cost of wood.
Back on the trail to Heiden, where it starts to snow. Around noon we slide back to Buchen on icy slopes. The snow turns to an increasingly heavy rain. When we come to a beautiful park overlooking Staad Robert whispers: "Like an Eichendorf fantasy castle."
Lunch in Rorschach. Then to a confectioner's, where a teenage lout makes a racket. In Hafen, I negligently put us on the train to Romanshorn instead of to St. Gallen. I treat it as a lark, for the lonely, reed-covered riverbank is lovely, bright with light brown and blue colors. But Robert's suspicions appear again—he seems to think my mistake was intentional. He doesn't relax until we're on the train from Romanshorn to St. Gallen, traveling slowly through fields and orchards. Exhausted by overexcitement I fall asleep, and don't awake until shortly before our destination.
In the cafeteria Robert talks about C. F. Meyer: "You know how much I value his work, especially Jürg Jenatsch. He loses me when his style grows rocky and solidifies into the epic. The language should always flow."
On observing the photography of a successful knockoff artist: "Look at his head! No critic could expose his limitations as cruelly as his own head!"
Shortly afterward, concerning a conceited novelist who, everywhere, sought connections with famous contemporaries, and then in "good" society praised their friendship: "There's nothing dumber than intellectual arrogance. This man always lets himself be lit by others, since he himself casts no light."