Dear Marion, By way of introduction, an account of our trip south and about other matters from a letter to my friend Cynthia Behrman: "Thank you for your letters. Juggling my e-mail as I do on no fewer than five computers, two in Belmont, one each on Nantucket and in Konnarock and my laptop, I'm not sure I've been able to locate everything you recently sent me. I remember there were questions, but my memory is unreliable, and you may just have to ask again. "Your most poignant question was about Nathaniel and his view of his future. Not surprisingly his emotions - and the thoughts they engender - tend to be somewhat mercurial, and it's not surprising to me that sometimes - though not often - he is discouraged and finds himself wondering if there isn't a way out of his commitment to conducting. So far as I know, at this juncture, he is very optimistic. "The long strenuous backpacking expeditions which Margaret and I took with Klemens in the White Mountains, and especially in the Canadian Rockies have profoundly affected the family's experience. On occasion when we were very tired, cold and or wet, and had miles to trudge back to the car, with the heavy packs on our shoulders, we told each other that one can't engage in any worthwhile activity without at some occasion or other, wishing that instead of being out on the trail one was home in bed. "That pious reflection is certainly apposite to my Nantucket adventure, and even to the 17 hour 890 mile drive to Konnarock which we have just absolved. Yesterday morning, we started out at 8 a.m., an hour later than planned, first to Sharon MA to pay a brief visit to Margaret's sister Janet, who, as I may have mentioned has been widowed for about thirty years and now lives with her divorced daughter Anne, her cat, one medium-sized dog and an enormous 140 lb. mastiff in a very small house in the suburban woods, - an existence so constrained that neither Margaret nor I could manage. Margaret is understandably anxious about her sister, and wanted to see her before we went south. "We left Sharon shortly after 10 a.m., drove Interstate 95 and 495 to the Massachusetts Turnpike, and as is our custom, through the Berkshires, turning south on the Taconic State Parkway at the Canaan exit. Across the Hudson at Newburgh, through the Poconos to Scranton and then down Interstate 81. We reached Pine Grove PA, as I had calculated, when darkness fell at about 7 p.m. but the unassuming "Econologe" where we had planned to spend the night was almost filled. Only one room on the second floor, at a correspondingly high price. I thought, unwisely, that we could do better. Three motels in the vicinity of Harrisburg at which we stopped were filled. Margaret considered negotiating poorly marked side roads in search of a motel was more hazardous than continuing on the Interstate toward our goal. "Earlier on the trip, driving through the Berkshires and the Poconos, I had periodically become quite somnolent, had stopped several times at Rest Areas to close my eyes but had gained only temporary relief. Finally twenty minutes of deep sleep at the Mile 26 Stop on Interstate 84 in Pennsylvania, left me with a steely unwavering concentration on nothing but the steering wheel, the road, the trucks in front and the headlights visible in the rear view mirrors, a disposition which I believed, wisely or otherwise, would make it possible for me to drive safely into the dawn. Such a demonstration of resilience, however, turned out not to be necessary. As we approached Exit 302 at Middletown VA, I saw immediately adjacent to the highway a promising new motel, whose large illuminated sign "Super 8" pierced the darkness. The parking lot, as yet unpaved, was crowded with motorcycles, cars and trailer-trucks. A youngish, scrawny, unshaven clerk, no model for Saint Peter by any stretch of the imagination, muttered that he had only two rooms left, one a suite with kitchen, bathroom, and a bedroom with a "Queen-size" bed, the other ... I didn't let him finish. Whatever was least expensive, I said, would do, and he seemed to get the point. For 70 dollars plus tax, he put us in what I suppose will be marketed as the bridal suite, - where the size of the bed suggests that the architect contemplated - or dreamed of - a polygamous society. I lost no time testing the "Wi-Fi" Internet access, which turned out to be superb. At 12:34 a.m. I e-mailed Klemens to tell him Margaret and I were safe, sound and exhausted in a Super-8 bridal suite. At 9 a.m. I had an e-mail from Helmut to which I could immediately make a sketchy, tentative reply before we availed ourselves of the free "Continental Breakfast" in the lobby. Outside, the stand-in for St. Peter was smoking a cigarette. Obviously still hadn't had time to shave, but he was pleased when I told him we enjoyed the sumptuous accommodations and would probably be back, without specifying a date. "Today's drive began under a heavy cloud cover, but no rain, To the east, the summit of the Blue Ridge was shrouded in fog. The traffic, which had been light in northern Virginia, became progressively more dense as we drove south, but continued to carry us at the speed limit of 70 m.p.h. all the way down the Shenandoah Valley. Just north of Roanoke we passed a traffic jam many miles long, fortunately in the other direction, such as I had never seen until I drove in Germany, and which, when I encounter it now, provides me with the satisfaction of finally having a "virtual" "European vacation" at home. By the time we drove into the Food City parking lot in Chilhowie to stock up on groceries, the clouds had parted and the flat roofs of the now empty ungainly block-like buildings that line the old Main Street reflected the rays of the gentle autumn sun. The 13 mile drive across Iron Mountain as always, was buoyed and weighted with memories beyond counting. "The house was intact, just as I had inferred from my daily surveillance photos. We had left it in July, clean and very neat. Today Belmont and Nantucket seem very far away. Tomorrow, I hope, my friendly and well-meaning Civil Engineer, Mr. Esposito will receive his $1450 check from my Bank of America account. He acknowledged receipt of my questionnaire, but hasn't given me any hint whether he intends to answer it. It's awkward to say, but congenial as he is, my engineer is not overly intelligent. When I explained to him that I had no obligation to demonstrate my plumbing to be code compliant, but that I wanted to show Mr. Ciamataro's report to be incorrect a) with respect to the facts, b) with respect to the interpretation of the Plumbing Code, and c) with respect to its failure to comply with the appeals Court's Footnote 13, Mr. Esposito answered: "I don't see the difference." As for my questionnaire, I'll report to you Mr. Esposito's response, if any. ==================== Dear Marion, Now begins the real letter to you. I deem "Rundbriefe", those circular newsletters ostensibly addressed to everyone to be addressed to no one, consider them derogatory, dishonest, and not worth reading. I never do. I've not resolved the contradiction of plying you with the missives I direct at others. But the older I get, the more frequently contradictions seem to get ahead of me. I've succeeded, I believe, in copying to this computer all your recent letters. I'm much appreciative of the sympathy, sensitivity and intelligence they convey, unsure whether I will be able to do them justice. I'm about to forward to Nathaniel, Micha's criticism of Nathaniel's Dvorak performances. Please tell Micha for me, - and by proxy for Nathaniel - of our gratitude for the care with which he listened to, and the candor with which he criticised Nathaniel's efforts. With no intention of mitigating that criticism, I would point out that at least some of the imbalance of the sound might be attributable to the haphazard placement of the microphones, which is my responsibility, and which was dictated in part by considerations of safety, i.e. concern lest the decrepit Belmont "seniors" who constituted the audience should trip over the microphone cabling. Over the years I have become more and more appreciative of criticism up to and including Mr. Ciarmataro's, as being existentially infinitely more truthful than "appreciation" and praise. Perhaps it's because I consider my life to be quintessentially a series of failures - my childhood separation anxiety protracted well into adulthood, my failure to become a physicist as I had hoped, my failure at academic literature, my failure at academic philosophy, my failure at academic medicine, my failure as an eye surgeon, as an essayist, as a novelist, my Nantucket failure, - I resemble a bacterial organism that has developed antibiotic resistance, I now experience criticism, the objective characterization of my failure, to be nourishment essential for my survival. Rilke provides me with the alibi: Wen dieser Engel überwand, welcher so oft auf Kampf verzichtet, der geht gerecht und aufgerichtet und groß aus jener harten Hand, die sich, wie formend, an ihn schmiegte. Die Siege laden ihn nicht ein. Sein Wachstum ist: der Tiefbesiegte von immer Größerem zu sein. _ "Der Schauende" Thank you very much for the medical update. I hope a method to enhance the night-time oxygen saturation can be improvised. It won't be simple. My ultimate admiration is reserved for the physician who has the courage and candor and genius to help you to embark, persist and progress in a program of weight loss. The multidimensional account of "The Barn" if I surmise correctly is a story yet to be told. The appropriate conclusion to this letter is summarized in that verse from the New Testament which is very dear to me: Und vergib uns unsere Schuld, wie wir vergeben unsern Schuldigern. Jochen