Cultural morning. Commercial afternoon. Manuscript treasures at the National Library, Rodin at the Gallery.

I crouched down beside the display case that contained a fragment of the Logia Iesus, the Sayings of Jesus. Just a fragment, a third of a page, suspended in glass. It was tiny and insignificant compared to the sprawling maps, the thick pages of the Gutenburg Bible. But it made me hold my breath, because here was part of a document containing gems of Gnostic wisdom. Maybe this page was even part of the Gospel of Thomas. Did it have energy all of its own?

Yes, I am re-reading Foucault's Pendulum. What makes you ask? (And on the way home, I noticed we were travelling along route 23, and I stifled the urge to jump out of the car at the traffic lights and make off with the sign.)

Rodin has always been a favourite of mine. I love the relationship he has with the bronze, and the way he lets us share it. I love the way he pulls forth something different, having tried everything. My favourite? Not The Thinker, not The Kiss; too trite, too popular, too over-exposed and passe. A piece in the first gallery, tucked away at the side. Nothing important. It was called The Call To Arms. A soldier dying, and above him, a vengeful angel, the elemental valkyrie, a spirit of blistering, pure anger, of wrenching grief, of ebuliating victory and eviscerating defeat. The spirit of war.

It was stunning, it was compelling, it made it all worthwhile.