This damnable libretto will never finish. It isn't that I have difficulties writing it— far from that!— but rather that the social engagements that I thought might gradually diminish have done nothing of the sort, and furthermore, I cannot rightfully travail at an opera that looks to certainly last well over eight hours when I am nearly finished with this other bit of fluff. I cannot even imagine the work involved in scoring this project of mine. Nevertheless, eventually to some place it shall go. I feel that in my bones. London will know true vision and beauty beyond its wildest imagining. The greatest obstacle is in fact unrelated to the expediency of my writing, and rather that I have found the opera house quite lamentably designed. I wish that I could find where Holländer first performed again, for I recall it as fairly acceptable, but the other details escape me utterly.