Dear Cyndy,

As you surmised, we're back. The trip more arduous than usual, 
physically I performed quite well, traipsing the 0.4 miles
from the parking lot to the wharf, then sprinting the two blocks
from the wharf to the waiting Madaket bus, the half-mile trek
from the bus stop to the house, - and back, and finally the walk
to the grocery store through the tourist infested town, before
settling down on the open deck of the "Eagle" - the name sported
by the squat, broad and most ungainly of automobile ferries. We
sat first in the transparent but smelly plume of the diesel engines'
exhaust, then moved forward to the prow to escape the fumes,
and found the winds streaking across Nantucket Sound too strong
and too chilly for comfort, even in the middle of summer. We
finally settled on a second row bench, behind a man tending
two small children. His head, which intruded into my view of
the sea and sky, had a crown of rather thick blackish hair,
encircling a pate of shiny baldness, of which I couldn't be
certain whether it was natural or tonsured. Transiently I
wondered whether I might be looking at a very slick and elegant
yarmulke, but this was not the case.

I haven't yet reread your essay about the farm, but I've rethought
it many times, so often indeed that it tended to crowd out the
other business that might have demanded my attention. What your
account brought to my mind, perhaps somewhat incongruously was a
poem of Hoelderlin's, arguably the most famous:

Hyperions Schicksalslied

Ihr wandelt droben im Licht
Auf weichem Boden, selige Genien !
Glänzende Götterlüfte
Rühren euch leicht,
Wie die Finger der Künstlerin
Heilige Saiten.

Schicksallos, wie der schlafende
Säugling, atmen die Himmlischen;
Keusch bewahrt
In bescheidener Knospe,
Blühet ewig
Ihnen der Geist,
Und die seligen Augen
Blicken in stiller
Ewiger Klarheit.

Doch uns ist gegeben,
Auf keiner Stätte zu ruhn,
Es schwinden, es fallen
Die leidenden Menschen
Blindlings von einer
Stunde zur andern,
Wie Wasser von Klippe
Zu Klippe geworfen,
Jahr lang ins Ungewisse hinab.


Hyperions Schicksalslied
Hyperion's Song of Fate

Ihr wandelt droben im Licht
You walk in lofty splendor of light

Auf weichem Boden, selige Genien !
On mossy meadows, blessed Immortals!

Glänzende Götterlüfte
Moved ever so lightly

Rühren euch leicht,
by gleaming breezes divine,

Wie die Finger der Künstlerin
Like sacred strings

Heilige Saiten.
touched by the Muse.


Schicksallos, wie der schlafende
The immortals' breath is devoid of fate,

Säugling, atmen die Himmlischen;
like the infant's sleep

Keusch bewahrt
Chastely preserved

In bescheidener Knospe,
in modesty's bud

Blühet ewig
their spirit

Ihnen der Geist,
forever in bloom,

Und die seligen Augen
and their blessed eyes'

Blicken in stiller
gaze is silent 

Ewiger Klarheit.
eternally clear.

Doch uns ist gegeben,
But ours is a fate

Auf keiner Stätte zu ruhn,
that finds no rest

We falter and fall
Es schwinden, es fallen

Die leidenden Menschen
We suffering humans,

Blindlings von einer
Tossed blindly, hourly, 

Stunde zur andern,
over and over,

Wie Wasser von Klippe
A stream of water

Zu Klippe geworfen,
from ledge to ledge

Jahr lang ins Ungewisse hinab.
Forever into uncertainty.



Hyperion's Song of Fate

You walk in lofty splendor of light
On mossy meadows, blessed Immortals!
By gleaming breezes divine,
Moved ever so lightly
Like sacred strings
Touched by the Muse.

The immortals' breath is devoid of fate,
Like the infant's sleep
Chastely preserved
In modesty's bud
Their spirit
Is ever in bloom,
And eternally clear,
the silent gaze
of their blessed eyes.

But ours is a fate
That finds no rest.
We falter and fall
We suffering humans,
Tossed blindly, hourly, 
Over and over,
A stream of water
From ledge down to ledge
Forever into uncertainty.

Although on second thought, since your account is all about
fairies and pretend fairies, not so incongruous after all.
Schicksal, of course, is the German word for fate, from
"schicken", send, that which is sent by the gods.

The scenes that you describe so vividly and directly, 
reminded me of the innocence of childhood, where innocence
is not yet having tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge.
Yet, what I have learned about families, mine, my parents,
my sons, yours, your parents', your children's, not to
speak of the families of the Flanders' clan, I conclude that
fate is not to be escaped, but obviously a vacation from fate
on the farm is not to be spurned, if one is able to obtain it.

I'll stop now to get some lunch and then drive out to Sudbury
to fetch Leah from the North Gate Farm where she's been
escaping - and courting if not tempting - fate by horseback
riding. She's at risk for metamorphosing into a real Amazon.
Klemens, Laura and Rebekah are off to retrieve Nathaniel
from Tanglewood where he's been trumpeting the summer away.

Give my best to Ned, and enjoy the weekend with your family.

Jochen