In the public library, the woman whose catalogue raisonnée of Kurt Schwitters had gone largely ignored generously agreed to my request for one of the large fabric banners upon which Tony Dohr's words of praise for the project were emblazoned. She regarded me patiently as I failed to fold it neatly, and accepted my offer of help carrying a carton of books to her car with an air just faintly scented by flirtation, understood by both of us to be retractable at any moment. Her next project, she thought she'd surprise me by saying, would be on Jack Spicer.