Dear Marion,

Egmont: Kind ! Kind ! nicht weiter !
Wie von unsichtbaren Geistern gepeitscht,
gehen die Sonnenpferde der Zeit mit unsers Schicksals leichtem Wagen durch;
und uns bleibt nichts, als, mutig gefaßt,
die Zügel festzuhalten und bald rechts bald links,
vom Steine hier vom Sturze da, die Räder wegzulenken.
Wohin es geht, wer weiß es ?
Erinnert er sich doch kaum, woher er kam. (Goethe)

The foregoing quotation from Goethe's play "Egmont" came to mind
as I reflected on my own, albeit unheroic, hectic existence.
To help you with the somewhat difficult German, I paraphrase:

no further! (Don't go on.) As if whipped by invisible spirits,
the runaway horses of time bolt with the flimsy wagon of our fate,
and nothing is left to us, but bravely composed, to hold on to
the reins, turning the wheels, first right to avoid a boulder,
then left, to skirt a cliff. Who knows the destination, when
whence one came is almost forgotten.

Perhaps I'm exaggerating, rushing around, gritting my teeth for
the uncongenial, unpleasant task of buying a new car which I don't
like - or a used one. The fact is, I can't conscientiously drive to
Virginia, leaving Klemens here with a 154000 miles, thirteen year
old vehicle, its electrical system forever on the verge of failure.
I'm in a quandry because my family is silly, - Laura doesn't like a
red or a brown or a gray car, Rebekah doesn't like a black car, Leah
doesn't like a white car. The dealers are crooks, advertising discounts
which evaporate as one walks into the showroom, and the cars are
extravagantly absurd assemblages of potentially irreparable mechanics
and electronics.  The computerised ignition keys which could until now
be duplicated for $1.50, now cost $300 to replace; an infuriating
imposition with which I see no alternative but to make my peace.

Thank you for your tolerance of my disdain for scientists' 
presumptions of communing with reality. With respect to molecular
biochemistry (or to any of the other occult sciences), I recognize
two classes of occasions when the science touches reality:
a) when perceived phenomena beg for symbolic (logical, verbal,
mathematical) interpretation, and b) when conscious considerations
or subconscious intuition turn out to be accurate predictors of
the consequences of actions we are about to take. The rest of the
theory, lying as it does in the darkness between perception and
action, is black magic.

From our local library, I borrowed a second edition copy of the
Oxford Dictionary of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology, expecting
a volume of short, informative essays. However, the book is indeed
a dictionary, a compendium of alphabetically organized definitions,
which corroborates that what I am attempting to do in my old age
is to learn a new language, except in a superficial perspective,
an obviously hopeless undertaking. The analogy of molecular biochemistry
to a language of its own, I find very compelling, in the sense that
when you and I converse, be it in English or in German, what we talk
about invariably remains partially undefined. However compelling our
understanding of each other's meaning, what we are able to explain to
each other will unavoidably fail to exhaust, or perhaps even fail to
reach the reality to which it refers. Language is at one and the same
time a bridge for understanding one another and a veil which conceals
the reality that concerns us.

Thank you for your offer to mail me your copy of the essay collection
of Kevles and Hood; but please don't. When it's time to return my
Oxford Dictionary, I'll ask the library to find the essays for me.
I wouldn't be surprised if one of the contributors was Richard Lewontin,
a classmate of mine at Harvard, - we roomed in close proximity in
Matthews Hall. - He was later my patient. Lewontin was a Harvard
professor who was critical of the politically correct ideology which
he thought was bent on over-interpreting the social and "philosophical"
implications of the burgeoning science, and frequently published his
protests in the NY Review of Books.

Rebekah, Nathaniel and Klemens were here for supper. Rebekah is 
spending many hours in the third floor room which I cleared for her.
Nathaniel is much appreciative of my encouragement for a concert
at Christmas time. I hope it's not only to please me, that he is
turning toward the Baroque, He mentioned playing two of the
Brandenburg Concerti. I suggested perhaps Corelli's Christmas
Concerto and/or one of Haendels Concerti Grossi. I also suggested
he might try to find at one of the local music schools an eager
soloist who would like to sing Christmas carols or arias. I'll
keep you posted about the progress of our conspiracy.

Jochen

PS Thank you for the images about how genes self-replicate.
The text did not make the trip. I'll try to understand the images,
and perhaps ask questions tomorrow.