Danielewski was, I think, the cameraman on the weird and somewhat interesting documentary Derrida. I remember watching it and after I got used to the annoying American voice over talking rubbish, found looking at the old man, who wrote so many words, and who had so many words written about him, almost disconcerting. Watching TV in his little Paris house in that city's interminable suburbs over breakfast. Talking nonsense about love...I wonder if he ever looked over Danielewski's MS.
Don't know what to read next. Have the BS Johnson Omnibus Picador, I think, put out. But I read must of that last year.
Got a new writing studio in NeuKoln for the whole of March so am going to start back into the Dada story, work on poems and maybe some visual work as well.
My last novel, Locus Domus I'm now calling it, has had its recent setdowns. My enthusiasm and belief remain low in it right now.