I am making bold to write up another of my 'cases'. Unfortunately, it is taking me longer than I originally intended; the document lies languishing upon my desk. Francoise, my housekeeper, has, of course, been no help whatsoever. I leave strict instructions not to be disturbed and yet find myself constantly beset by questions of the most trivial nature, queries to which I simply do not know the answers. 'I am sorry to disturb you (this after the heavy tread of her shoes on the stairs, three loud knocks on my door and a slight clearing of the throat), but when will the Doctor require dinner? And will the Doctor be going out because the floors need to be swept (a downward glance here that implies some kind of criticism) and I have precious little time to finish all my other jobs?' And with each interruption, the steam train of my thought is broken, derailed; my sense of critical unreason is forced to become reasonable in the face of daily concerns.
It is the question of memory that now possesses me, the question of the work of memory and the question of the writing of memory. Texts that are about memories themselves have memories; they dream of other things.
When this literary critical investigation is complete, when the work is over, I will gladly send it to those who contact me at my postal address (which I have again temporarily forgotten).
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