Dear Cyndy,

Just as if I myself had done the surgery, - lucky for you that I didn't - 
I continue to worry about your recovery, both ocular and spiritual,
from your ordeal. In one perspective it's improper for me even to
mention my concerns, inasmuch as the procedure is said to be trivial, 
in the phrase with which many of my patients reassure themselves,
"a piece of cake".  Accordingly, my refusal to conceal my thoughts lends
itself to interpretation as a species of indecency. Arguably the only
thing I can do for you is to stop mentioning the subject.

My own existence in the recent past has been hectic, but unexpectedly
productive, and satisfying to me to the extent that I manage to
maintain the illusion of accomplishment. Some weeks ago, as I may
have reported, in trying to help Nathaniel gain some insight into
Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus, I resurrected my long dormant thoughts
about Mann's allusions, appropriate or otherwise, to Nietzsche as
a prototypical Faustian character. Benjamin may have overheard some
of that discussion and when Nietzsche was mentioned in Benjamin's
modern European history course, he asked me "Yoyo, what do you think
of Nietzsche". The answer was probably more than he had bargained
for. I remembered and mentioned to him an essay on Nietzsche's
madness which I had written as a college sophomore, and in appreciation
of which F. O. Matthiessen - have you heard of him ? - had awarded me
the Barrett Wendell Prize. Benjamin dutifully asked to read the essay,
a copy of which I found among my father's collection of my high school
and college papers.

That foray into the past reminded me of other manuscripts I had concocted
in my youth, which for decades I hadn't wanted to look at,
largely I think because of embarrassment and shame for the social and
academic failures that they came to symbolize for me. It's the
octogenarian's loss of inhibition which made it possible for me to
contemplate once more the futile ambitions of youth. When I was searching
for the essay on Nietzsche, I found a typescript, in German,  "Der
Ursprung des Zweifels an der gedeuteten Welt aus dem ethischen und
aesthetischen Bewusstsein des Menschen" (The Sources of Doubt about
the interpreted world from ethical and esthetic consciousness).
That was my inadvertent re-invention of the wheel (of existentialism),
and I read it with a Narcissus-like admiration for the elegance of
the native prose. The English version is not nearly so congenial to me;
but it's much more complete: a bloated document of some 645 double-spaced
typewritten pages, which no publisher deigned even to look at, except
Harpers, and they, only because the responsible editor was on vacation
and his substitute didn't want to take the risk of a mistake. On looking
at the manuscript once more, I decided I wanted to preserve it, and to
that end started to scan to PDF format all 645 pages, at the rate of
one page every 50 seconds. As of now, 220 pages are in the computer. 
My plan: to start at 11 p.m. each evening,
when I'm too tired for anything else, 
to put additional pages into the machine.
Last night, however, I didn't do any
scanning. I was distracted.

What distracted me was an e-mail from Klemens which forwarded an invitation
from the new administration for practicing physicians' opinions about 
details of the impending health care reform. I thought I might try to rise
to the occasion, and started to draft a letter. It takes time, and it is
work, - but given how much I enjoy writing, it seemed a reasonable effort
to make.

One last question before I conclude: Did the Flanders have a dog when I
stayed with them? I found an essay on my Chappaqua days which I wrote
for my English A composition course in 1946, in which I mention conversing
with the family pet. That story I suspect is historical fiction. At the
time I wrote it, only seven years after the events, I seem to have been
incapable of an unembellished account of my experience.

Stay well and give my best to Ned.

Jochen