Dear Marion,

Thank you as always for your letter and for the candor of your criticism.
Your question: "How could the factual details of Margrit's life,
unfolded before her friends and The Friends, be considered frivolous?"
is well put. "Frivolous" is a word poorly chosen. "Irrelevant" might be
more to the point, - irrelevant to the reality of subjective experience,
belanglos in Bezug auf das Erlebte. The sentiment reflects my aversion to
the obituary as the concluding documentation of life-long misunderstanding.
I wrote as I did for Margrit and for Margrit's Friends, but what I wrote
cannot begin to express what I think and what I feel. 
 
Your criticism of my statement that Margrit wanted to have nothing to do
with me is also appropriate. I was careless in what I wrote. Could we
agree that there was an asymmetry in the reciprocal relationships which
Margrit and I wished from each other. The emotional and intellectual
intimacy with her for which I longed, she found oppressive and confining.
The casual encounters with which she was comfortable seemed so inadequate
that they made me feel sad and lonely. Now I must learn to live with my
sorrow.

It's neither edifying nor constructive for us to discourse about Margrit.
Let's change the subject. Nor am I sure that we should write about myself,
although I welcome criticism. That I should have a tendency to exaggerate
is a concept new to me, but I'll keep it in mind. My unwillingness to
participate in ceremonies reflects my experience that they are cheap
substitutes for genuine encounters between human beings. My apparent
"disinterest in visual arts" is a misunderstanding. My concern with
visual arts is limited only by my own abilities. I am in fact a sensitive
and at times a very passionate photographer, and if I have not learned
to draw or paint or sculpt it's not from lack of interest but from lack
of time, energy and occasion to learn and to practice. I'm disinterested
only in the passive so-called "appreciation" of the visual arts.
Your message that I "cling to the idea" that I am "unacceptable, unlovable,
despised and rejected", is news to me. Perhaps you know me better than
I know myself, or see something about me that is invisible to me. But I'll 
remain on the lookout: perhaps discovery is just around the corner.

I find it too painful to write about Margrit. I certainly don't want
to write about myself, - by far too prone to narcissism. Maybe the
novel is the answer. There I can write without inhibition, without
guilt, without concern about misrepresentation. I will try harder.

Jochen