Dear Cyndy,

The image of the snow-covered pond makes me want to start over
with winter, - right now. I understand you don't share my feelings.
I was 16 years old when I wrote the essay that I sent you. When I 
compare it with the one I wrote sixty years later, I am impressed
how much I had forgotten, and how much I remembered; how indifferent
now to the threat of becoming Americanized, knowing that it never
happened, and undisturbed by the reproaches of ingratitude, now that
I have a better understanding of what gratitude is and what it is not.
When I read my instructor's corrections sixty-three years later, my
initial response is like yours, that they are valid and constructive;
but as I immerse myself more extensively in these old manuscripts, 
I reexperience a recrudescence of the resentment I felt at the time:
overall, his comments are too intrusive: he did not understand the
boundaries between his experience and mine. I'll send you today a 
sheet of his which I found separate in my father's file, but which
I believe refers to the Chappaqua essay. In response to your request,
I scanned nine other papers, so that there are now eleven, which I
will spoon to you one at a time. Please let me know when it's enough.

More, later. Please give my best to Ned. Stay well.
Jochen