the presence of a stranger in the house makes it hard for me to write. i feel uneasy, constrained, embarrassed. and slightly dispossessed. i cannot concentrate or order my thoughts. going to the library would be worse, i suppose, because i have never been one to work in silence. here at home, at least, my white pilfered peonies, the golden brew of tea, the red shiny apples lined up on a green, glazed dish, the view of the street from my window, all these give me some measure of contentment. the cold, shadowy confines of the widener carrels and the bright publicness of the reading rooms - one a cell and the other a commune - both repel me. but here at home i no longer have my placidity and solitude.