B.C. Leale

Thomas Mann’s Diaries

11 January 1938

Tinkered with the weather. Arranged my writing-desk on the spare dentures. The black ink elegant and sinewy. Fog under the side table all morning until the electric light finally shone. This afternoon took to the sea with my walking-stick and submariner’s lightning-proof boots. Shaved my dark suit. Put on a change of air. Opened the wormy door...

A Letter from Magritte

There is a little Indian blood in the veins of the coffee. Yesterday I visited the date on the calendar in a flat in a white house saccharised with religious education. I am, at the moment, seated in front of a South American jungle (the home of psychoanalysis) in a black, prickly, Victorian chair. Mrs Paige arouses the anacondas. Dr Vits paints her out with a brush...