When I arrive in my room, first thing, I jump under my shower and then unpack my traveling bag. After re-dressing with fresh clothes, I take that little book, the New Testament, into my hands and open it. I will busy myself with it in a little while, will study the material and feed my consciousness, as, being curious meanwhile, the preaching on the train did stimulate my appetite. But first, the TV has to be tested. I switch it on. A documentary about a Belgian painter is being shown. A late work of his he named it The Rage of the Gods. It shows a lake completely covered with a layer of oil, only the top of a church sticking out of it, a star is falling from the dark sky and blood is flooding out of the moon. 95 percent of the picture consists of black paint. During the interview, it becomes clear that the painter is that negatively adjusted concerning everything, full of sorrows and fears of the future, and thus it didn’t surprise me at all, that this hangdog, stick-in-the-mud of an artist really threw himself in front of a train two weeks after the film was shot. It seems to be impossible to be simultaneously happy and that negative.

The artist was Belgian, which reminds me that I initially thought Hercule Poirot was French. But this detective, who trusted his little gray cells, was Belgian. He is an invention of the British Agatha Christie and his last case is about a murderer who cannot be arrested due to a lack of evidence. Mr. Poirot can only prevent another murder if he resorts means that are not in accordance with the law. After a yawn, the flicker box is switched off. I lie down on my bed and fall fast asleep. Shortly after seven p.m. I wake up again. Boy, was I exhausted Have hardly slept that well in ages. But now I feel fit again and as hungry as a hunter.