At MOMA, in N.Y.C.

The Japanese House. I went in. Removed my shoes. Put on slippers. Went into the dark kitchen. Stone cauldrons sunk in wooden holes. Went out a sliding door to a back porch, with square columns, with square spaces between. Turned around. Saw the dark space of the open sliding door, the equal space of the white door next to it and the doorlike lintel above. Heard a sound. Lllllllllll. Turned my eyes away. Looked back. Again the sound. Went around the corner. Looked up. Flat thatched ceiling. Eyes went slowly along it to the end, where they went off into infinity. Tried again. Same effect. Went into the garden, looked back at the porch roof. It was, unknown to those standing beneath it, slightly curved.

Went in a room. Looked at the walls. My eyes would rest for a few seconds on a wall space, then be gently moved to the next. The room itself was doing it. I looked down. I thought, "If I take a step, I don't know if I'll move two feet or eight million miles." I thought, "This house is a philosopher."