Dear Marion,

Thank you for your letter. I reiterate again that
I don't ask - or expect - that you should read _anything_
that I post on my web site. It's there for you if and
when you want to read it, but my composition, as I have
said before, is not contingent on its being read.

Your account of the documentary about the garment district
reminded me of the several conversations that I had with
Frederick Wiseman about his work. You have probably heard
of him as one of the most prominent makers of American
documentary films. I was struck with the unobtrusive and
ideologically unbiased intensity with which Mr. Wiseman
approached his work; and I was, as you can imagine, especially
interested in the implication of documentary films for my
interpretation of "reality" and the manner in which I
perceive it. The fact that it requires a filmmaker's effort
to bring "the real world" to our attention and to make it
compelling for us, suggests to me that by and large, the
vision of reality with which we flatter ourselves is an 
illusion.

I've e-mailed by Scarlet Letter notes to Benjamin. I don't
expect an answer or even an acknowledgement, - but I may
be pleasantly surprised. As always, I write primarily for
myself.

Margrit's clostridium diarrhea seems much improved, and I
hope the improvement is permanent. Tomorrow at 1:30, I will
drive her to a rendevous at a bus station in Braintree MA.
There she will be met by a college classmate, Tania Nicolet,
who will take her home to New Bedford, where Margrit will
stay until Tuesday morning, when at 10:30 a.m.  I will meet
her at the same bus station to bring her back to Belmont.
As expected, concurrent with her recovery, Margrit is
becoming restless, impatient to hit the road with her 
little car and drive off into the wild blue yonder. Klemens
is persuaded - and I agree - that with her insouciance she
is courting catastrophe. I assure her that she may stay here
as long as she likes, that she may leave whenever she wishes,
that she may return at any time. Margrit tells me now that she
will stay here until she has completed the course of
metronidazole early in December. Then she expects to book
the cheapest flight to Tri-Cities Airport in Tennessee,
dragoon Roald Kirby, the son of a deceased schoolmate,
to drive 60 miles to the airport to fetch her and take her
to Konnarock. In Konnarock she expects to pack in a matter
of hours, and cajole a schizophrenic acquaintance,
Claude Gable, to pack her car for her, before driving
off into the winter night.  

There's nothing more on my mind tonight. I'll try to add 
a few paragraphs or a few pages to Chapter 39 before I give 
up and go to bed.

Jochen