Dear Marion,

By way of introduction, and unrelated to the family saga, as I
reflect on our conversation about abstract art, it occurs to me
that abstract art becomes plausible as soon as I refrain from
trying to deduce its significance from the configuration of the
image, but learn to accept the image as a catalyst for spiritual
community among the viewers. If I am correct, the image is
meaningless to the isolated individual. Its power is a function
of the aggregate of the spirits whom it unites in admiration,
but individuals like myself, whose esthetic needs are asocial
remain unaffected. 

This morning, as I reread your letter, I have an ever increasing
appreciation of your openness and good will. Please understand
that I do not wish to importune you by answering promptly and
frequently. For me it's a matter of literary - intellectual and
emotional efficiency: I don't shelve my ideas or postpone their
expression. I put into a letter what is currently on my mind,
mail the letter, and - being 79 years old, - promptly forget
what was of such concern only hours ago, - then to proceed to
the next literary project.

On the general subject of religion, to preclude misunderstanding,
I need to state a few generalizations. a) I try to cultivate
a profound respect for _all_  religious orientations, especially
those that are unfamiliar to me. b) I consider religious experience
ineluctably inward and subjective, and all public expression of
religious sentiment makes me (very) uncomfortable. c) Religion is
Literature and Literature is Religion. - for an explanation cf.
chapter 1 of my novel Die Andere.

I expect to have much to say on the subject of my father's apostasy.
As an aperitif: consider that my father married my mother because
he discovered her to be "etwas Besonderes" (something special), and
he himself wanted above all to be "etwas Besonderes". Margrit and I
were brought up to believe that our parents were "etwas Besonderes"
and that our individual lives should be valued to the extent that
they too should be "etwas Besonderes." If being "etwas Besonderes"
isn't being God's chosen family and as such isn't the essence of Judaism,
I don't know what Judaism is all about. In this perspective, my father's
marriage was the epitome of his Judaism, and I will forever consider
it as such. Apostasy is dancing around the golden calf with everybody
else. The paradox that we humans desperately need society, and that
society unavoidably precludes, squelches and crushes uniqueness is
the tragedy of Judaism.

In our telephone conversation, I alluded to Marga's hostility to Margot.
That was an oversimplification. The relationship between the two women
requires to be looked at in an historical context. As I review it now,
between 1927 and 1933 (or was it 1934?) when our grandmother died, my
parents' assimilation into - and of - our grandfather's family was a
model of mutual tolerance and affection. So far as our grandmother was
concerned, Onkel Fritz was an essential member of that ecumenical coalition;
like our grandparents until their deaths, he was part of the family,
which was held together largely by my mother's charisma. If Onkel Fritz
made financial contributions to the family, it was not because my mother
demanded them, but because he wanted to make them as an expression of his
family membership. One doesn't have to be a psychiatrist to understand that
Onkel Fritz' acquisition of his own family required the dissolution of his bonds
to my parents', that such dissolution would be painful for both parties,
but that it was unavoidable and ultimately necessary for the survival of
them all.

In the perspective of this necessity, I can't concur with your regrets
that a close relationship between the two brothers proved impossible.
The marriage of neither of them would have survived it. My father was
indeed a lonely soul, but he needed his wife more than he needed his
brother; and I suspect the same should be said of Onkel Fritz. One 
can't have everything; and one causes much unhappiness if one demands it.

A poem of Hoelderlin's seems like a good way to end this letter:

Abendphantasie

Vor seiner Hütte ruhig im Schatten sitzt
Der Pflüger, dem Genügsamen raucht sein Herd.
Gastfreundlich tönt dem Wanderer im
Friedlichen Dorfe die Abendglocke.

Wohl kehren itzt die Schiffer zum Hafen auch,
In fernen Städten, fröhlich verrauscht des Markts
Geschäft'ger Lärm; in stiller Laube
Glänzt das gesellige Mahl den Freunden.

Wohin denn ich? Es leben die Sterblichen
Von Lohn und Arbeit; wechselnd in Müh' und Ruh'
Ist alles freudig; warum schläft denn
Nimmer nur mir in der Brust der Stachel?

Am Abendhimmel blühet ein Frühling auf;
Unzählig blühn die Rosen und ruhig scheint
Die goldne Welt; o dorthin nimmt mich
Purpurne Wolken! und möge droben

In Licht und Luft zerrinnen mir Lieb' und Leid! 
Doch, wie verscheucht von töriger Bitte, flieht
Der Zauber; dunkel wirds und einsam
Unter dem Himmel, wie immer, bin ich 

Komm du nun, sanfter Schlummer! zu viel begehrt
Das Herz; doch endlich, Jugend! verglühst du ja,
Du ruhelose, träumerische!
Friedlich und heiter ist dann das Alter.
                     Hoelderlin

Jochen