11/27 Among the things I picked up last weekend I found a note I had written to my mother at maybe age six or seven. Cute with all the spelling errors, that sort of thing. But what astonishes me is: I can’t remember that note. Of course I don’t remember every little thing in my life. And yet I would somehow assume that when confronted with any particular detail, it would materialize in my mind, because everything is actually there, it only needs to be called up. Also, what astonishes me is the language. It is subtly, but undoubtedly the dialect of the area. That, to me, seems like a mistake. I sound like someone who grew up there, which I wasn’t even back then, and certainly never since.