On the next page some essays were written about the value of art, about its future, about the interrelationship of individual arts, about the architecture of literary style, about the new primitives who, according to Mueller, would bring about a victorious revolution in the life of art.  The essays almost filled the notebook.  Mr. Lenzlicht read it without taking an active interest, and he often skipped pages.

The last essay in the notebook seemed to interest him more.  His eyes widened, and they fastened themselves to the letters.  He held the paper like someone who was near-sighted, and with both hands.  Sometimes he said something vague.  Or he laughed without knowing it.  Or he laughed, (the way someone would say “damn").  Or he let his tongue hang out of his mouth.  In the notebook was written: 

I sit at the desk and dream, which would seem suspicious to the good Lenzlicht:  The young should not dream.  Lenzlicht has already noticed that the skin around my eyes has become ashen.  He often asks, with special emphasis, whether I slept badly saying that I look so funny.  Once I became angry, and said:  “You too, Mr. Candidate.”  Smiling embarassedly, he beat me until I bled.

I had to interrupt my writing, because Miss Neumann had come in.  Today she has colored legs with patent-leather shoes—­I find that exciting.  I had promised myself to watch her no longer... lately she shown herself to be such a prude... in the afternoon she went into the city.  She came back late.  I met her on the staircase.  But she broke away and said, excitedly, “Go to bed.”  And she went into her room.  In the following days I did not see her.  The servant Hermann said she must be taking care of her room.  I asked why.  He said she had become engaged.  He smirked.

For me the erotic discussions had gradually become detestable.  I always try to free myself.  I am seldom successful.  I know that an understanding woman might free me.  This one wouldn’t:  Miss Neumann is a silly young thing, eighteen years old.  The cook is an immature bitch.

The housemaid Minna is arrogant; she is unapprochable, unjustifiably.  Perhaps the head of the institution, Dr. Mondmilch, is a possibility, but when I try to make my valleys and peaks comprehensible to her, looking with longing into her eyes, give myself to her—­she is distant, takes notes, has secret talks with Lenzlicht, prescribes tranquilizers.  She is very brutal, I sometimes believe that she loves me secretly.  She seems to be unhappy; I like her.-Yesterday I had to interrupt my writing, because the fat idiot Backberg called me to the table.  I sit next to the Russian Recha.  She likes to pinch my leg; she says I’m too fat.  She kisses tall Lehkind, because he looks like a skeleton.  Anyway, I can’t stand the vermin that have been assembled here.  There’s trouble every day.  In particular, the very small seven-year old Max Mechenmal—­an