Dear Cyndy,

In a few minutes, when I've dried off from my shower and have.
at the end of this letter, sent my regards to Ned,
I'll head to the Summit Nursing Home in Providence RI to say
"hello" to a patient of mine, now 81 years old, whom I've
been looking after since time immemorial, at least thirty years,
far out of the reach of my computer records. She's very stubburn
and refuses to be taken to any ophthalmlogist other than Dr. Meyer.
Since I don't have a Rhode Island license, I would be breaking the law, 
if I checked her visual acuity and visual fields, such as the
high school graduates who staff the offices of the motor vehicle
department are routinely required to do, - not to speak of
measuring the intraocular pressure.

This morning, together with yours, I received an e-mail from
my German friend, Helmut Frielinghaus, who commented referring to my
litigation with Nantucket, that apparently the American bureaucrats
were as malicious as the German ones. Helmut surmised that maybe that
similarity was the reason I derived such satisfaction from resisting them.
It occurred to me then that he was correct:
that in fighting the Massachusetts bureaucracy,
I am compensating for the helplessness of my childhood
in now resisting a government which
in its contempt for the individual,
in its obsession with power,
in its disdain for reason and humanity
is at least to me indistinguishable from the one
on the other side of the Atlantic
which cast its dark shadow over my childhood.

Speaking of childhood brings me again to Canaan,
and your essay about the farm, and your denial of fate.
That's o.k. with me. I'm familiar with that tune
and can hum it along with you. You'll forgive,
I hope, a passing glance on the irony of an historian's denial of
fate, in as much as the concept of fate, it seems to me,
is nothing more or less than the nexus of history that ultimately
retrieves from absurdity the stories of individuals and of states.
Fate is fatum, that which has been spoken by the gods, - and what
is an historian other than a godiess when she purports to survey
and to interpret and to judge the destinies of nations.

I'm sorry Hyperion's Schicksalslied escaped you on the first pass.
Maybe you'll catch on, the next time around. Interesting to me
that I read from it now something that had never occurred to
me before:

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!
Moved ever so lightly
By gleaming breezes divine,
Like sacred strings
Touched by the Muse.

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

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.

It had not occurred to me that the second stanza
beginning with the fatelessness of the infant's sleep
is an account of childhood and adolescence;
that the spirit which is budding in modesty
is (also) the body of the pubescent child
in contemplation of which the poet anticipates
the efflorescence of the adult.
Isn't it true that if you believe in magic,
you believe in luck, and entrust the history
of your existence to Sors, the god of the dice,
rather than to Zeus or to Jehovah. Perhaps in
the end, the difference isn't so remarkable after all.

Give my best to Ned, and stay well.

Jochen