Again visited Kropotkin. The society assembled there was a rather motley crew, which exhausted his family. They look at every new arrival as if he is a misfortune that needs to be patiently dealt with until the end. See more
I started talking about Walt Whitman. “I, unfortunately, have no interest in him. What kind of poetry is it, that is expressed in prose. Moreover he was a faggot! Pardon me, but how can this be all right! In the Caucasus—whoever seduces a boy, is immediately struck with a dagger!”
We’ve had the most unbearable frosts. I have shut the library, which I am not heating, and am working in my bedroom, which I can barely keep above eight degrees. I’m feeling bitter about my 74 years, and about the fact that, while the horizons for constructive and creative minds are endlessly expanding, I personally cannot work for more than four or five hours in a day.