November 21, 2005

Dear Jane,
                                Nah ist
Und schwer zu fassen der Gott.
Wo aber Gefahr ist, waechst
Das Rettende auch.
Im Finstern wohnen
Die Adler und furchtlos gehn
Die Soehne der Alpen ueber den Abgrund weg
Auf leichtgebaueten Bruecken.
Drum, da gehaeuft sind rings
Die Gipfel der Zeit, und die Liebsten
Nah wohnen, ermattend auf
Getrenntesten Bergen,
So gib unschuldig Wasser,
O Fittiche gib uns, treuesten Sinns
Hinueberzugehn und wiederzukehren.

God is close,
but beyond our grasp,
Danger and Rescue dwell side by side.
Eagles build nests in darkness,
and fearlessly, sons of the alps cross the abyss
on flimsy walkways.
Therefore, since scattered about us are summits of time
and loved ones dwell near,
languishing on most separate mountains,
give us the water of life,
Oh, give us wings,
to visit them and to return.

The foregoing poem of Friedrich Hoelderlin, written on the threshold of insanity, has long been one of my favorites, which I, who have always contemplated the necessity of living on such a threshold, save for special occasions, such as yesterday's trip to Amherst and back. I like the image of the summits of time (die Gipfel der Zeit) on which we live in uttermost separateness, occasionally daring, with visits like yesterday's, to cross, on flimsy bridges, the abysses which surround and which isolate us.

I experienced our, Margaret's and my, visit with you and Morty somewhat like a drama, a play, an opera, in which I become absorbed to the point of being lost in it, so that while it lasts, and for a considerable time thereafter its reality is more compelling to me that the soberer contexts that I left behind. Nor does the magic fade with the falling of the curtain, it lasts and lasts in after-images, in echos, in fantasies and dreams, and in some measure, small or large the world thereafter is never the same again.

A dream-like fantasy that enveloped my thoughts, like the halo of the setting sun behind us as we drove eastward on the Mass Pike, was the question what would have happened if in 1939, when, nine years old, I arrived in Chappaqua, you had been there, and had spoken to me as you did yesterday. I think a new and entirely new problem would have arisen for me. I would surely no longer have frequented the pedestrian overpass at the railroad station; I would have been much less insistent on returning to my parents every two weeks, and I would probably have wanted to come back to Chappaqua at least that frequently to visit my newly found American grandmother.

I would like Morty to know, whether he reads this letter, or whether you tell him, that I regret having foregone the opportunity to ask him about ethics in journalism. That seems to me to be a subject both too important and too complex to be considered incidentally. After I have thought about the topic a bit longer, I intend to write to him.  

So far as the hypothetical evolution of the correspondence between yourself and me is concerned, I understand all too well the burden of writing, especially by hand, but it would seem eminently practical for you, if you were inclined to answer my letters, to do so by telephone. Nor need the replies be elaborate, but only sufficient to give me reassurance that my epistolary efforts are not intrusive or otherwise objectionable.

In reference to the technics and economics of telephoning, I enclose a print-out of the web-page from the long distance and intra-state telephone carrier whose services we use, piggy-backed, so to speak, onto our conventional Verizon local service.

The souffle, - if that's what it was, - was very good.  Thank you for everything.


                                      Jochen