After I finished going over this manuscript once more — today I did the last part, 38, the big bulk of the York seminar — I walked where I had walked a few days ago with my visiting son: past the house where the Herbert Marcuses had lived for many years to (off the street) a kind of pulpit—in—the—open; I am writing this sitting, away from the view one has from it, on the broad sandstone banister, leaning against a stone ball that ornaments the corner (as others do the other corners) (and pressure on the spine). I had wondered whether something would come to mind on this walk to conclude this book. But then what did come to mind is that this walk itself was significant — I have just alluded to its significances (my son, the Marcuses). And then there is the comparison between where the book began and all but the last long section was written — Florence — and where it ends: where I've lived for the last fifteen years (and only a few weeks ago started to live again instead of moving).