The noise in the night was the hurricane force wind blowing everything about. A German artist said to me with relish, "It is raining cats and dogs," pleased to use his idiomatic English that sounded charming. Upstairs I was perched precariously outside the door of the studio where I now have a much more satisfactory arrangement to log in to their Internet connection instead of trekking to the Internet shop. They have a large three-room suite of studios with desk room for me, which is great, but they usually leave at six and this was ten pm. Shortly after that, a solidly built fair girl in a grey overcoat, carrying a huge Bass Cello turned up at an adjoining studio. Flinging open its' door, after barely saying "Hallo", she then proceeded to fling wide open the corridor windows as well. With hurricane wind outside this made quite an impression and a huge draught so I didn't dawdle. Thomas Mann's ‘The Magic Mountain' was a fine way to ride out the storm. From the first pages one can realise that it is a masterpiece. Written densely, I don't even think of skipping bits, but instead stop and unpick, then think about the phrases. It is exquisitely written, reminding me of Proust. Horrendous details of tubercular sputum, blood, drawn out deaths that are surprising but not actually as revolting as they might be in another novelist's hand. Shocking as they are, these episodes are interwoven by the complexity in every detail. Exact numbers of windows, doors, tables are given, the gait and stance of each person with a full description of their clothes, as well as their coughs, all in meticulous put in so carefully and thoroughly that a picture is physically built.
