Dear Marion,

I hope the circumstance that I haven't had e-mail from you
for some days is indicative of nothing more serious than that
you're bored with writing and have better things to do than to
indulge in our sophisticated chit-chat.

Finally I seem to be  catching up on the tasks that accumulated
during our long lazy absence in Konnarock. I vacuum cleaned and
washed the upholstery and the carpets in the 1997 green 158000
mile Dodge minivan, and removed at least so far as one can see -
and smell - the mold which had proliferated so luxuriantly during
the summer when the car, its fabrics soaked with leaking rain,
turned into a fungus incubator. Just now I drove it to a garage
whose aged sole proprietor is passionate about postponing the
inevitable demise of cars, symbolic perhaps for passionate
postponement of the mortality of us all.

My writing seems to have recovered from the interruption of the
trip. I've finished das 42. Kapitel, waiting however to post it
on my web-site until I've read it through a few more times, - and
made a vigorous start to chapter 43. This morning, just for diversion,
I googled wikipedia for the lengthiest novels, and ascertained that
mine is already longer than War and Peace, though only about half
the size of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu.

My insousiance concerning the presumptuousness of the comparisons
reflects the circumstance that I have long since abandoned all
concerns regarding publication.  Ditching what Milton referred to
as that "last infirmity of noble mind," 

Alas! what boots it with uncessant care	  
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,	  65 
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,	  
Were it not better don as others use,	  
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,	  
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?	  
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise	  70 
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)	  
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;	  
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,	  
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,	  
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorrèd shears,	  75 
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,	  
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;	  
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,	  
Nor in the glistering foil	  
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,	  80 
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,	  
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;	  
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,	  
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. 
(Lycidas - John Milton)

Ditching what Milton referred to as that "last infirmity
of noble mind," is immensely liberating, writing without
consideration of pleasing or flattering the potential reader,
but solely "mir zur Feier," I discover myself in imaginary
conversations with my characters, creating the occasion for
discussions such as I would like to have, but to which no
sane individual would wish to commit his or her time, - and
yet a meaningful chronicle of what is going through my mind
from day to day. Under the circumstances, there's no reason
not to proceed from day to day and from month to month until
for one reason or another, as my mother would have said in
her Teutonic English: "I can no more."
  
I hope you're well and happy.

Jochen