Dear Cyndy,

Just an hour or two ago, when Nathaniel came into the kitchen
to get the keys for the car, he told Margaret in passing that
he had accepted Yale's offer. It makes me sad, but I expect
only transiently. For me it's the same old story: I care more
for him than he for me. The imbalance of affection is a pathetic
infirmity of mine which has afflicted me all my life.
Periodically I think I've outgrown it, but then the injury recurs,
made more tolerable now by the circumstance that it nourishes
my fiction.

Kimberly's response to my overture was a certified mailing 
containing her opposition to my motion to strike, and a request
to the Court to assess me with attorney's fees and court costs
for what she, in desperation I believe, calls a frivolous filing.
Wisely or otherwise I had withheld from my motion some procedural 
specifics, because I didn't want to function as her law professor,
and inadvertently instruct her in the strategy least likely to fail.
So far as I can tell from her filing, it's all sound and fury;
she still doesn't understand the procedural niceties. I doubt
she'll get a sympathetic hearing, but one can never predict.
Judges are human too, sometimes very human. Her over-reaction
will focus the Court's attention on the issue, and my explanation
of why I should not be fined will give me a chance to argue more
vigorously that her opposition should be stricken and that the
case is over. The hearing, as I mentioned, is scheduled for May 12.

Today I assembled all the papers that need to be filed. I'm waiting
ten days, until April 24, for Mr. Hadas' the AG's opposition to
my motion to strike, - an opposition that seems very unlikely.
I've had no opposition from him to my Judgment on the Pleadings
motion: it's now 38 days since I served it on him. However, it's
good to be prepared for all contingencies: maybe the mailman 
delivered it to someone else, just as, in the past two days, 
he's mistakenly deposited 5 letters for our neighbors in our
mail box.  Life never ceases to be interesting.

Whatever happened to our land in NH? - It's still there, eating
very modest annual real estate taxes. Margaret and I haven't been
to visit it for six or seven years, - the last time being when I
drove off the shoulder because I couldn't see the edge of the
road through the high grass. It was a choice of getting the road
rebuilt with truckloads of gravel, or getting a four-wheel drive
truck or van of some sort, - neither of which seemed economically
rational.  Nowadays it would be difficult for me to hike up our hill,
and impossible for Margaret. I'm satisfied with the knowledge that
the land is there, even if we can't visit.

The "retirement" issue which you raise is, of course, very important
for all of us. Margaret and I intend to stay here in this house until
the bitter end, which, for my part, I very much hope will come sooner
rather than later. A few weeks ago, I discussed the issue with Klemens
and reminded him that in order to preserve family capital, he'd better
help us stay here rather than go off to rot and die in a nursing or
retirement home. He is determined when the time comes to hire household
help to assist us as needed, a scheme that worked very well for my parents:
under the arrangements we made, their capital actually increased during
their final illnesses.

I marvel at the complexity of human relationships: we live here in this
very large house with so much unused space; and all around us are persons
in need of places to stay. Yet the difficulties of mutual accommodation
are so great that each of us needs his or her separateness.  Proximity
unavoidably tends to generate conflict and hostility. And ultimately
each of us is very much alone. Over the years, I have observed my
relationships to my patients, how few are truly lasting, how many of
them wither and fade, with as great necessity as plants that shed their
leaves in autumn.

That, I admit, is not a proper message for the spring. But I find myself
in an autumnal mood tonight. It's better I should stop and wish you and 
Ned good night; and write again sooner rather than later, when the sun
has risen once more.

Jochen