October 22, 1969
How old are you going to be?
Forty-six.
Oh, you’re still a baby!
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I have some white hairs.
Really! … Me, I haven’t one! … It’s strange, not one.
It’s because of this (Mother points to the little goose on her table), I told you the story …. The mind doesn’t work, so I don’t get tired!
I have a lot of work to do with my head, nonetheless.
I no longer do any.
Yes, but as for me, I have all the books to prepare! … It’s necessary.
Of course.
So it must be on purpose.
Yes.
But now, you see, people have made it a habit to ask me for a message on every occasion, and lots of people write to me, asking for answers. So I remain like that, and almost instantly (except in a few rare cases), the answer comes like this (gesture of descent). And if I don’t feel like writing, it persists and persists … and won’t let go of me until I’ve written! Once I’ve written, it’s over! To such a point that I don’t even remember what I’ve written.
I’d like to learn the knack!
(silence)
I don’t think there’s a knack.
I can’t even say that I made effort to get that, not at all.
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