Yesterday I drove to Dartmouth in Hanover NH to visit Benjamin,
who while he had been in Belmont on the long winter vacation,
had seemed to me to be somewhat in need, if not of a family anchor,
then of a fixed family marker, such as by surveyors is called a
monument, to rely on as reference as he triangulates his path from
adolescence to adulthood. In response to my initial request for a
visitor's appointment, Benjamin had put me off for more than three
weeks, until January 28, and even then neglected to answer my
e-mail and telephone attempts to pin down the exact time and place
of our meeting, until I saw no alternative but to issue the threat -
or the promise - that in the absence of a reply from him, I
wouldn't come. Finally, whether pursuant to a college freshman's
lackadaisical indifference to precision, or from a grandson's
11th hour change of heart, Benjamin finally sent me the
confirmatory e-mail, saying he would "love to see" me.  

I backed out of the driveway at ten minutes past eight. I ignored
the gossipy dash-board monitor of the 18 months' old new car
which was nagging me with a message that the tire pressure was low.
I assumed that the monitor was in error, because it had previously
reported low tire pressure merely in consequence of a spell of cold
weather. I was too stiff and too lazy to confirm my interpretation,
but whatever was wrong, if anything, it failed to interfere with an
uneventful 260 mile round trip. The northern-most section of the
drive was of spectacular beauty; under a clear blue winter sky,
the trees were coated with ice to the smallest twigs, and the bright
sun transformed the mountain sides into glistening sheets of light.

Hanover is a small New England town which has become the captive of
what appears to be its only industry, Dartmouth College. I mused
about its continental namesake Hannover with its gift to England
of three generations of mediocre kings.  I arrived on South Main
Street half an hour early, found a parking space at the agreed upon
place across from the Dartmouth Book Store; slipped four quarters
into the meter for two hours' parking, then cell-phoned Benjamin to
tell him I had arrived. He came to the car about ten minutes later;
he seemed confident and well. We spoke for a few minutes in the car,
then went to a near-by coffee shop for take-out hot chocolate and
pastry, which we carried into the Dartmouth College Library. In
comparison with Widener which over the years has been turned into
an academic Fort Knox and prohibits all visitors, the Darmouth
Library is remarkably welcoming. No visitors' identification is
required; I saw no sign prohibiting public access. The front hall
that once housed the card catalogue has been converted into a
spacious parlor with scattered tables for consuming food brought
from outside or purchased in the library. Benjamin and I found
two comfortable upholstered arm chairs.  I invited him to tell
me whatever I should know, and cautioned him against telling
me what I should NOT know. He told me about his courses, one on
Caribbean History taught by a professor whose race he mentioned
only after I asked, were there any black students in the course.
Benjamin told me about Marcus Garvey, with whose name I had been able
to associate nothing at all. Benjamin told me that the notes about
religion and spirituality which I had made for him, had proved very
useful. The assignment had been to find someone to interview about
this awkward topic, and none of the other students had succeeded.
I made no inquiry about grades and Benjamin made no mention of them.
My impression that they are not a problem. Benjamin mentioned that he
was considering three months in Australia as an exchange student next
summer. I asked Benjamin if any of the friendships he was establishing
would be meaningful ten years from now. He answered: as long as I live.
And volunteered that his college friends were very different from those
in high school whom he had left behind. 

He suggested we take a lengthy walk to a pond on the edge of the campus.
On the way, we were stopped by three girl-friends of Benjamins to each
of whom I was introduced as "my grandfather" with an immediate precipitous
chilling effect on the conversation. Benjamin asked me about my high
school and college experiences, and I told him... I commented on the
drastic changes that were and would unavoidably be occurring in his life;
among which not the least, I suggested, was reaching the decisions on
which women NOT to marry. He asked me whether there had been any such
in MY life, and I confessed. Novelist that I have become, the telling of
stories is easy, especially since I understand the fragility of the
distinction between fact and fiction. When we returned to the car, the
parking meter had already declared VIOLATION, but no meter-man or
meter-maid had slipped a ticket under the windshield wiper. Benjamin
thanked me for coming. I remembered a question I had meant to ask
and almost forgotten: would he, when I had won my lawsuit, be interested
in helping me complete the Nantucket construction to the extent that I
was unable to do so by myself. Very much so, he replied.  I asked, would
two hundred dollars be of help to him at this juncture. The answer was
"yes", and I peeled off 10 twenty dollar bills from the wad in my wallet
and slipped them into an envelope I had brought along for this purpose.
Then Benjamin wished me a safe trip back, and sent me on my way with 
a series of hugs such as I haven't received in all the years since
Margaret decided I was no longer worth the effort.

After I arrived in Belmont, Nathaniel telephoned. He told me that he had
read Chapter 49 and approved, wanted to know which of the details of the
crossing were remembered and which were imagined. He mentioned the
Burke-Shaftesbury-Kant-Schiller tradition of the beautiful and the sublime.
I suggested to him how different the different times in which we were living
by imagining if he could, that rather than Edmund Burke, a statesman of our
own time such as Newt Gingrich or Mike Huckabee might sit down to write
an essay on the Sublime. Nathaniel then spoke about Beethoven's religion
in the context of the Missa Solemnis. I explained that biased as I was
by the B-Minor Mass, I had difficulty listening to Beethoven's Missa;
but I would try again. I also mentioned the religious songs by Christian
Fuerchtegott Gellert that Beethoven had put to music. After we had hung
up, I remembered also Beethoven's Oratorio, Christus am Oelberge (Christ
at the Mount of Olives) of which I had a CD to which I had never listened.
I did then, following a libretto retrieved from the Internet, and found 
Beethoven's account of the agony in the Garden of Gethsemane very moving
especially in the context of his own Heiligenstaedter Testament composed
only a year before. After an intermission, I put disc #1 of the Missa
Solemnis in the CD player and listened to the Kyrie, Gloria and Credo
to "Et homo factus est" which I've always felt to be the most inspired-
inspiring portion of this Mass. At this juncture I turned off
the electronics, because I was tired, and went to bed.

This morning I am reminded of a major discrepancy in Chapters 48, 49
and 50 which I must address before it slips from memory. In chapter 48,
I report a series of dining-room table lectures in which Katenus attempts
to communicate to his guests his "system" of philosophy. I was aware
at the time that my expositions were not as cogent as I would like. Now
I discover that I had forgotten to insert as their linch-pin the notion of
de-idealization which permeates and unifies all phases of Katenus' thought.
Since "ideals" are by definition, artifacts of thought, de-idealization
should be - and is - by definition self-proving. De-idealization is the
mental function which discovers, implements and corrects the arbitrary
misleading distortions with which words, concepts and the belief in their
ultimate reality hobbles thought. Integrating these insights into the
novel is a task with which I haven't yet begun.