I've just read Tolstoy, What is Art? or parts of it, found on line, probably a crumb from a seminar somewhere, with large sections X-ed out. The meat: art is a shaped sharing of the artist's feelings about something in the form of music, painting or writing. It is written with the intention of sharing the feelings. Its primary purpose is not pleasure. Sincerity is important. I suppose some of us would more or less agree with this, although I feeling it may have been written as a reaction to the art for art's sake movement of the end of the 19th-beginning of the 20th centuries.

And before that I went to pick up my backpack at the Bon Marche where I left it to be repaired, having purchased it there 10 years ago. The top zipper, the one for the pocket in which I carry my computer and my library books was broken, really broken, fixed-many-times-and-broken-for good. I used a safety pin for a while, but finally I could only use it by clenching it in my fist to keep the zipper together, sort of. Well, I have to report that the baggage department at the BM was utterly charming and helpful and the bag was returned to me after three-four weeks with a brand new zipper and key holder (also broken) and free of charge. My thrifty Scottish-Canadian soul is glad.

And night is falling in Paris. The street is quiet, though muffled traffic sounds are audible in the background, and the sound of giggling children below my window. The church across the street is crumbling: they were up there on a crane yesterday, tapping, tapping. They say they will have to wrap it in nets so no one is killed by a piece of stone dropping from a corniche. Just like the hillside in La Roque Alric, which has also been covered in nets.