One review complete, I think. One I'm still reading for. Two other bits of journalism maybe almost done. Four translations-in-progress, two now with the publisher, who wonders if I'll take on something else by the same writer. Yes, I will, because I learn so much myself, and because it is gratifying to publish books. Once a bookworm always a bookworm, but to produce the things yourself? You feel you exist--a kind of super pinch-me.

Sunday morning. Husband gone biking in the suburbs, friends coming for early (by European standards) supper. Two painters, a physicist and a computer person turned sculptor with bits of old pianos, also a collector of stone tools (from the ground) and partner-backpackers. 

Yesterday afternoon: Centre Pompidou, on foot (nice walk) to check out the children's art classes, the Robert Delaunay show and Frank Gehry (crowds there). Sat on the 6th floor sofas at the entry to the Duchamp show and watched people come and go, ordinary people with lots of kids apparently consenting to Duchamp. What would an 8 year old make of Duchamp? They should like the idea of turning stuff into art. I read the last section of the poetry book I have to review there. Bought underwear in a shop (Intimissimo? Italian?) and thought about how French women have nice underthings, which sure isn't Protestant. Lots of 20-somes trying on red lace bras and asking for bigger sizes. Me: something invisible to wear under gym leggings.

Washing machine just stopped spinning (silence suddenly, and not the silence of between spins, but the end-silence--what's the difference?)