17 January 2007. Rain yesterday evening--glossy steps outside fourth floor door. First day back at school, cold classroom, grungy desks--yet enthusiasm of new group... Po Chü-i, ancient poem: The Hundred-Fire Mirror. We read each line. Can you convince us of the meaning. "Was he a court poet?" The meaning of mirror...red-jade powder, golden oil, polished bronze... This morning: sun everywhere, now glinting off metal pocket clip on my pencil. Also a mirror. Last night, late: Austerlitz. His disturbing, detailed reiteration of the camp at Terezin. Nothing left to chance. Returning to London, he watches a film made there at that time, now in slow motion. Kinds of distance, layers of remove. And then: Agata's face. His mother's. A mirror as well.
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