October 6, 2005
Dear Jane,

I am concerned, as I read and reread your letter, that I should be unable to find the words to answer it.  "Thank you" is worn out from overuse.  Perhaps if I can manage to keep this reply short enough, it will not seem too presumptuous if I write again in a few weeks, - or a few days.

At our age, it is unconventional and possibly unwise, to presume to try to resurrect, or even to unearth the past.  If I choose to indulge myself in the extravagance of exploring my childhood experiences, it is nonetheless improper of me to expect, or or even to suggest, that you should do the same.  You owe me no apology if you ignore my letter(s).

It would be an injustice to attribute my unhappiness during summer of 1939 to anything that your parents, Peter, Ellen or you yourself, did or failed to do.  The roots of my misery were in myself.  The separation anxiety with which I was afflicted first manifested itself (or was planted) in the summer of 1931, eight years before I showed up in Chappaqua, when my mother entrusted me and my sister (I was then one year of age) for one month to the care of my paternal grandmother, who, upon my parents' return from their vacation, complained eloquently that she was exhausted from having to put up with my uninterrupted screaming.

I am sorry I disappointed your expectations in 1939, and I wish there were, at this late date, expectations that I might be able to fulfill.  You overlook the possibility that the Rackstraw aria might have been made memorable for me by the child who performed it.

My wife and I would like very much to spend an hour or two visiting you in Amherst, or - if you have occasion to come to Boston - invite you to our house for lunch or for dinner.  But I can also understand, and you need not apologize, if you would rather not.