Dear Cyndy,

We're back. It was a cloudy day. During the trip,
the sky was overcast, and on the Island it rained
lightly and intermittently. I spent most of the 
four and a half hours on the boat - 135 minuntes 
each way, reading Jakob Burckhardt's "Die Kultur
der Renaissance in Italien." In the course of the
years I made several applications to become naturalized
in that landscape of brutality and beauty, all of them
unsuccessful. Now it occurs to me that Burckhardt is
in essence an historian, a teller of tales from the
horror and ecstasy of which he ultimately remains aloof,
detached. An observer only, certainly not a participant,
not even a witness, and helplessly impotent as a potential
judge. - What I need is a Sophocles or a Shakespeare to make
it possible for me to accept, or even to contemplate tragedy.
History, it seems to me, is a species of literature,
an art-form all its own. To be able to understand it, 
perhaps even to be able to read it, one must cultivate
special literary skills. I hope it's not too late for
me to try to make a start.

When I wasn't thinking about what the Bagliones and the
Sforzas were doing to each other and to their fellow men,
I was thinking about what Kimberly and her fellow lawyers
were trying to do to me, rather insipid stuff compared to
fourteenth century Italy. It's as if I were preparing for
an oral examination a week from tomorrow, and had, as has
invariably been the case, studied too much, too long, too
hard, with too much to say to a judge who didn't want to hear
that much, who perhaps didn't want to hear anything at all,
and would award his decree to the party that made the least
demands on his intelligence and courage. We shall see.

With respect to your account of your granddaughter Joanna's
impending move to Cambridge, your description of Ned's anticipated
visit to Kentucky, and your own journey to Kansas for
Joanna's graduation, there comes to mind a poem of Hoelderlin's
(the title is "Patmos") of which I have been very fond.
I have cited it before, and I find this excerpt and translation
in my computer files:
                                           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 nearby,
           but beyond our grasp.
           Where danger lurks, rescue is rooted as well.
           In darkness the eagles dwell,
           and without fear though on flimsy walkways,
           the sons of the alps traverse the abyss.
           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 of truest remembrance
           to visit them and to return.

I've sent you this poem before, specifically, last June 20, and now,
fecklessly, I "copy and paste" from last year's letter, relying on
the declining tenacity of your memory and your well-established
tolerance for my eccentric letters.

Attached are the images that I "downloaded" from Nantucket this morning.
The inside views show the "CAUTION" ribbons that I have draped across
the inside doorways in such fashion that when any section of the ribbon
is disturbed, even where not in the field of the camera, the entire
ribbon will collapse, signalling that I'd better go back over to have
a look. I repositioned both outside cameras to give more adequate views
of all four sides of the house. The grounds are still barren. The taxi
driver who picked us up suggested I needed so have some landscaping done.
But I told him, in time God would take care of it.

I thought I would have more to write, but "at this point in time",
I don't; will therefore stop. What's bad enough when I think I have
something to say might become intolerable when words are mere fillers
for emptiness.

Give my best to Ned, and stay well.

Jochen