In fw, waiting. There are the most unique and beautiful buildings here, buildings made entirely of brick of varying shades of redness. One particularly striking example I saw on my way to main street: faded orangish-claret and punctuated with scrapings of a white cement-like essence that imparts a decided character to its facade, like an old man not afraid to conceal the invasions of grey on his scalp. Further down on main street, as if affirming the kind knowing senility of the place, there are roads made wholly of brick. The uniform ruled redness in the distance clarifies itself when approached, defies charges of sameness by presenting its varying contours as evidence of an inner unperceived essence. The cool sunlight meanwhile suggests to the mind an image of black metallic steel chairs, stretched feet, and the promise of some moistening beverage.

Jacob is 24, unmarried, and loves fw. He told me his friends were 'all moving to Austin' and scoffed at the thought. I assured him that if the rest of fw was as featured as downtown, his decision was the wiser one. He explained the bricks by pointing to the wall where a photograph of fw in its early days, a hansom in the foreground and an old man beside it. He said the brick roads were laid to facilitate the horses that trotted to and from the slaughterhouse, so that their hooves would feel more at home on their loving surfaces.

Later: in barnes and nobel. Almost bought three more Henry James novels but had to stop myself: this book buying profligacy has gone far enough already.

(From a journal entry dated Jan 23).