Dear Marion,

Though always the same, it's a unique experience, each time
I leave the house in darkness, drive into the dawn, then into
the rising sun, and come home in bright daylight. Early this
morning, the moon was very new, only a thin sickle, and the
dawn was, as Homer described it, wonderfully rhododaktylos,
rosy-fingered. As I drove, I had time to reflect on the first
installment of your autobiography; and I began to understand
that I had not, in my reply, done it justice. Perhaps I am
incapable of such justice, unless perchance justice in this
instance were the insight and admission of my incapacity.
Each of your letters has been a brilliant reflection of the
person you are; hence the last one held no surprises.

As for myself, you have probably begun to understand that my
life has been passionately dedicated to the sort of intellectual
contemplation that Spinoza extols as supreme happiness. No other
comparisons are appropriate or intended. Margaret has put up with
my personality in a way few women would. I am not a fun person,
and the aura of earnestness - or is it Ernstheit - which adumbrates
me, as you well understand, is laughable. You'll find it a relief
to escape from our hectic correspondence. Have a good trip.
Stay healthy and be happy.

Jochen