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Margaret's working on a book of Henri Peyre's letters. The number of pages in the book is greater than the number of copies of the book we're printing--no small feat. Anyway, I told Margaret that it's too bad that Henri Peyre didn't have a first name that started with a "B." Then he could be B. Henri Peyre. (Say it out loud with the French "on-ree" pronunciation.)

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Eleven-hour workdays reek of peenis. But oh well, at least I can go on my little interview trip knowing that I have everything done that I'm supposed to at work.

Margaret lent me her lucky rock. She thinks it's actually a petrified clam and swears it contains magic. I ain't gonna argue with the woman.