Although doubtless I had better get some help with this difficulty, being what I was also finally forced to think.

What would Joan Baez name an almost cat? Or Germaine Greer? Doubtless I even began to have thoughts along those lines, as well.

Well, unquestionably I began to have thoughts along those lines as well, or it would have otherwise scarcely occurred to me to write those letters.

Even if I have perhaps forgotten to mention that Joan Baez and Germaine Greer were two more of the people I wrote them to.

And even if it was not actually my idea to write those letters in any way at all.

Actually, what happened was that there happened to be certain people at my studio, one evening, and one of these people happened to ask me what my almost cat's name happened to be.

Well, visiting at somebody's studio and having an almost cat climb into one's lap one is quite naturally apt to ask a question of that sort.

In fact whose lap the almost cat had climbed into was Marco Antonio Montes de Oca's lap.

Even if I no longer have any idea whatsoever what Marco Antonio Montes de Oca may have been doing at my studio. Unless perhaps it may have been William Gaddis who brought him.

Although doubtless I have also failed to mention that William Gaddis ever visited at my studio himself.

William Gaddis now and again visited at my studio himself.

And on certain of those occasions brought along other writers.

One would tend to do that sort of thing, basically.

Well, by which I mean that if William Gaddis had been a pharmacist doubtless the other people he brought along would have been other pharmacists.

Assuming he brought along anybody to begin with, I am obviously also saying.

So that this time he had perhaps brought along Marco Antonio Montes de Oca, who in either case did ask me what my almost cat's name was.

And so that what happened right after that was that all sorts of interesting suggestions were offered in regard to a name.

Writing to famous people for suggestions being one of those very suggestions, as it turned out.

And which immediately appeared to ring a little bell for everybody in the room.

So that in no time at all I had a sheet of paper filled with more names of famous people than you could count.

All of this as I say having been contrived in a spirit of fun.

Even if it saddened me.

Well, for never having heard of half of the people who were mentioned, to tell the truth.

Although not that this was by any means an entirely new experience in my life either, when one comes down to that.

In fact it had sometimes seemed to happen every other time I turned around.

So that as quickly as one had gotten accustomed to a name like Jacques Levi-Strauss, say, there was everybody talking about Jacques Barthes.

And three days after that about Jacques somebody else.

And in the meantime all one had honestly ever been trying to do was catch up to Susan Sontag.

And of course it was around this same time that one discovered that people who wrote ordinary art reviews in the daily newspapers had stopped calling themselves art reviewers and become art critics, as well.

Which naturally led one to wonder just what one was supposed to call E. H. Gombrich or Meyer Schapiro, then.

Well, or Erwin Panofsky or Millard Meiss or Heinrich Wolfilin or Rudolf Arnheim or Harold Rosenberg or Arnold Hauser or Andre Malraux or Rene Huyghe or William Gaunt or Walter Friedlaender or Max J. Friedlander or Elie Faure or Emile Male or Kenneth Clark or Wylie Sypher or Clement Greenberg or Herbert Read.

Or for that matter Wilhelm Worringer or Roger Fry or Bernard Berenson or Clive Bell or Walter Pater or Jacob Burckhardt or Eugene Fromentin or Baudelaire or the Goncourts or Winckelmann or Schlegel or Lessing or Cennini or Aretino or Alberti or Vasari or John Ruskin, even.

Although doubtless I am showing off again.

Just for the minute I felt like I needed it this time, however.

And be that as it may everybody did insist that I write to all of those other people who were named.

Even if I did leave out certain of the additional artists who were brought up, finally.

Well, such as Georgia O'Keeffe and Louise Nevelson and Helen Frankenthaler.

Simply feeling silly about sending such a letter to people I had been in group shows with, was all.

Although obviously I was not the one who put Campy Stengel in, either.

Oh, good lord.

Magritte.

Whom I did remember to tack onto the list myself, in fact.

Well, but Magritte now turning out to be exactly like Artemisia Gentileschi, I suddenly realize.

Which is to say that it seems practically impossible that I could have written this many pages without ever having mentioned Magritte before, similarly.

Certainly I have thought about Magritte now and again whether I have mentioned him or not, on the other hand, which was truthfully perhaps not the case with Artemisia.

In fact I have thought about Magritte practically as often as I have asked myself certain kinds of questions.

And which do not happen to be questions I have asked myself only rarely, either.

Well, such as what floor is that toilet on, say, that is on the second floor of the house that does not have a second floor?

Or, where was my own house when all I was seeing was the smoke from my potbellied stove but was thinking, there is my house?

Certainly both of those questions are questions that could make one think about Magritte.

And as a matter of fact I now even remember that when I finally found the road to the house in the woods behind this house after not having been able to find the road to the house in the woods behind this house, just about the first thing I said to myself was, well, here I am at the intersection of Fallen Tree Avenue and Magritte Road.

Even if on second thought I perhaps did not put Magritte on that list after all.

Which is to say that even though I happen to be thinking about Magritte now as somebody I might have thought about writing to then, he may have actually not been somebody I would have happened to think about writing to then.

In all instances lately when I have spoken about my studio, by the way, I have also been speaking about my loft.

Having worked where I lived, if I have not made that clear.

Well, or vice versa.

Although in the meantime I have only at this instant been struck by something quite curious.

In fact it is extraordinarily curious.

Not sixty seconds ago I walked into the kitchen for a drink of water, from my pitcher.

While I was walking back I heard part of one of the Bachianas Brasileiras, by Villa-Lobos, in my head.

I mean the one that everybody was generally familiar with, with the soprano voice.

Still, the Bachianas Brasileiras by Villa-Lobos being something else I am next to positive I have never mentioned before, either.

Even though what I realized simultaneously is that I have heard that identical piece of music now and again whether I have mentioned it or not.

In fact I have heard it as many times as I have thought about Magritte, practically.

Except that every single time I have heard it what I have always said to myself I was hearing was The Alto Rhapsody, And which obviously now implies that every single time I have mentioned The Alto Rhapsody what I ought to have mentioned was one of the Bachianas Brasileiras.

And moreover that every single time I have mentioned Kathleen Ferrier singing the Brahms what I ought to have mentioned was Bidu Sayo singing the Villa-Lobos.

Even if it may have been Kirsten Flagstad singing.

And in a manner of speaking I was not really hearing any one of the three to begin with.

Hm.

Once, somebody asked Robert Schumann to explain the meaning of a certain piece of music he had just played on the piano.

What Robert Schumann did was sit back down at the piano and play the piece of music again.

I would find it very agreeable to be able to feel that this has solved anything I have just been talking about.

Whatever I have precisely just been talking about.

In fact I would even happily settle to have not completely lost track of where I was.

I have not at all lost track of where I was.

Where I am is at the point where somebody next borrowed another sheet of paper and actually started to dictate the letter for me.

In fact it may have been William Gaddis himself who did this.

Or one of the pharmacists.

Although what was also suggested around this time was that I should include postcards along with the letters, addressed to myself, so as to give the people who received the letters less excuse for not answering.

Well, your ordinary letter of this type being easily left unanswered, of course.

Whereas surely one would feel more guilty about doing so when the letter had included a postcard addressed to the sender.

Even if what this in turn brought up was the question of proper postage, United States stamps being obviously of little use in any of the other countries the postcards were supposed to be mailed back from.

I believe it was Susan Sontag who thought to point this out, actually.

Or another of the pharmacists.

Still, I did follow the suggestion about the postcards.

Just allowing the stamps to appear to have been forgotten about, as it were.

And which in the end turned out to have been just as well, or certainly at least in terms of having saved the expense.

What with only one of the people to whom I had sent the letters ever taking the trouble to return the postcard in either case.

This having been Martin Heidegger.

And who in fact spoke quite impressive English after all.

Even making use of the subjunctive, as it happened.

Although when I say spoke, I should really be saying wrote, of course.

What I should wish to suggest as a name for your dog is the splendid classical name of Argos from the Odyssey by Homer, having been what was written in English on the postcard from Martin Heidegger.

For some period I was fairly annoyed with Martin Heidegger.

Well.

Even if I did finally come to realize that doubtless philosophers had more important items on their minds than names for other people's pets.

Ach, here I sit with such important items as Dasein on my mind, surely being what Martin Heidegger must have said to himself, and there is that person in America requesting a name for her foolish animal.

So that in the final analysis it was actually quite kind of Martin Heidegger to have taken the time to write at all, in spite of having made a mistake when he did so.

And even though it had taken almost seven months before the postcard came back, additionally.

But which may have also very well been the reason for Martin Heidegger's mistake, now that one stops to think about it.