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Emmett Williams

Our mutual friend Daniel Spoerri introduced Dieter and me at a Tinguely exhibition in Basel in 1960. Daniel had published books of “concrete poetry” by the two of us in Darmstadt the year before, and he thought we might see eye to eye on matters of art and life, and have fun comparing notes. We did, and the meeting was to enrich my life and art beyond telling in these hasty reminiscences, which seem to me so superfluous so soon after the eulogy I delivered at the memorial service just a few blocks away from where we first met so many short years ago.

diter rot. That's the way he defiantly restructured and lowercased not only his own name but the German language in general in those days. Years before we met I had jealously admired the succession of books and book-objects that this wandering German-born Swiss poet-artist-designer had been creating with such ease since the mid-'50s, almost

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