Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. Chapter Seven is the only one
of the 43 chapters of that novel "Die Andere" that I have
translated. That chapter is an excursion into the nether world
symbolized by an abandoned mining town whose only remaining
denizen is a hermit with a psyche that has been traumatized by
the atrocities of the Holocaust, in which he did not participate
but which he was forced to witness. The name Albert is borrowed
from Albert Schweitzer who was also an accomplished musician,
and who espoused a philosophy which he called "Ehrfurcht vor
dem Leben", reverence for life. Albert's sermon to his sleeping
and snoring visitor is an exploration as it were of what
reverence for life might or might not mean in the barnyard. 
Albert's injured spirit is unable to protect itself against
his loyalty to his compatriots whose actions he abhors. He
cannot stigmatize them as "war criminals". Although he was
not one of them, he believes he must share in their guilt
because he might have been one of them; and to remind himself
of this fact, and as a form of penance to wear the hated
uniform of an officer of the Nazi storm troopers. The chapter
is an exercise in expressionism, and it wouldn't surprise me
if you didn't find it congenial.

I hadn't thought of a comparison with the Magic Mountain.
As I read Th. Mann's book now, I interpret it as a description
of society, specifically of the society of the TB Sanatorium.
My texts as I write them are a descriptions of the individual
spirit. While Tonio Kroeger strikes me as autobiographical, -
so does Dr. Faustus, in the sense that the narrator, Serenus
Zeitbloom, is a parody of Th. Mann, in the Magic Mountain
Thomas Mann is nowhere to be found, certainly not in Hans Castorp
or his cousin Joachim Ziemssen, certainly not in either of the
Doctors Behrens or Krokowski, - arguably in Ludovico Settembrini,
but that identification would seem to be far fetched. My writing
on the other hand is only about myself, - and that is probably
a great weakness. I am both Jakob Doehring and Albert the hermit
in Chapter Seven, and in my current novel "Die Freunde" my
experiences are reflected in the characters of Joachim Magus, 
Jonathan Mengs and Maximilian Katenus. That is nothing to
boast about; but since I don't ask any one to read the book,
my apologies can be muted.

How you would feel about the rest of Die Andere, if it were
translated, I don't know. To my reading the language in
which I wrote it is so integral to the story that translation
would unavoidably entail rewriting it into a different book.

The theme is the midlife crisis of an academic, Jakob Doehring,
whose wife has died, whose enthusiasm has withered,
and who needs a new lease on life. The title "die Andere" -
"The Other One" refers of course to Dorothea, the feminist,
who presumes to take the place of the departed angel Elsbeth.
The novel, all 750 pages of it, is the chronicle of why and how
that doesn't work.

The first chapter which has the calculated effect of discouraging
all potential readers and all potential publishers, is a very
distant parody of Goethe's Faust. It finds Doehring disillusioned
in his study in the University Library, visited by a Ph. D. candidate
Jonathan Mengs, who has hatched a new hermeneutics for which he seeks
his mentor's endorsement. Mengs, who plays no further role in this
novel, but reappears as the protagonist of the sequel "Die Freunde"
argues that the Bible as a book of which one can make sense only by
virtue of ones faith is the prototype of secular books as well, 
because faith of one sort or another is prerequisite for the
intelligibility of anything that is written. Mengs argues further
that the Protestant Reformation transformed religion into the
study of literature, and made literature an exercise in religion.

The second chapter, which I consider the least satisfactory of all,
is an account of Doehring's indecision about what he should do
to extricate himself from the emotional and intellectual morass
in which he finds himself. At the end of that chapter he decides
to take a trip to the Canadian Rockies, to retrace the excursions
that he made there with his deceased wife.

The third chapter is a description of Doehring's flight from Boston
to Toronto and from Toronto to Calgary. It explores the dynamics
and the consequences of the proximity of strangers which such trips
may entail. On this trip Doehring found himself seated next to a woman
much younger than he, named Dorothea, who was on her way to give
lectures at a Womens' Liberation Convention at the Glacier Hotel,
and asks him for his opinions about her project. He is non-committal,
but she invites him to attend her lectures nonetheless.

The fourth chapter is an account of Doehring's landing in Calgary
and his drive across the prairie to Canmore, where he has rented
a cabin.

The fifth chapter describes Doehring's peregrinations through
the Natural History museum in Banff.

The sixth chapter is the account of his visit to the Glacier
Hotel to listen to Dorothea lecture. But since he doesn't even
know her last name, his identity is challenged and he is arrested
as a trespasser and interrogated as suspect of having assaulted
one of the convention visitors.

The seventh chapter, which you have read, described how Doehring
spent the rest of that evening.

I admit that I haven't read any but the first, third and seventh
chapters for more than ten years, although I derive much narcicistic
satisfaction from reading the words and sentences that I have
written both recently and long ago. I know it doesn't speak well
of me or my writing, that it no longer seems to make much difference
to me whether any one bothers to read what I write, and even less
whether my writing meets with anyones approval. I find that as my
memory fades, I spend progressively more time reading over and over
again what I have written. In old age, writing has turned for me 
into a preservative of my identity. Given the ease with which
text is transmitted over the Internet, I'm pleased to send you
as much (or as little) as you like. In the context of Albert's
sermon about reverence for life, I've recently been doing some
writing in English about animal sacrifice, about the Holocaust,
and about other matters that presently escape my memory.

I attach a surveillance picture of a bear under the bedroom
window of our house in Konnarock. The picture was taken at
2:28 p.m. today. (The image itself bears the stamp 15:28, -
but that's daylight time. Although I could reset the computer
clock remotely, I hesitate to do so, from concern that an
unanticipated side effect might impair a setup that has been
working very smoothly.)

As for talking on the 'phone, I would be happy to chat with
you any time. We have two phone lines, 617-484-8109 (preferred)
or 617-489-1043, if the former is busy. If you would like to
be called, let me know the time and the number, and even though
I'm a bit shy about initiating calls - on the assumption that
I would be disturbing some important activity - I will rise to
the occasion. 

My sister is making a very gratifying recovery; when she is well
enough, which is not yet, she will want to go back to her 
provocative, fate-tempting life style, - at 81 years of age
living in the Detroit jungles and shuttling in a miniature,
overloaded sports car to visit friends, real or imagined,
wherever she can find them.  I tell myself that if I'm very very
nice to her, she might be willing to exchange her dare-devil
adventure life with a more serene and sheltered domestic
existence in Belmont; but I'm not optimistic.

Please stay well, give my best to Ned, and don't let the
darkness and the cold of winter get to you.

Jochen