Dear Georgette,

Thank you for your condolences. When I started to write to
you that Helmut was the only friend I had, it suddenly became
clear to me how many individuals there are about whom I care
dearly, including yourself, with the corollaries that language
can be very dangerous, and that I must be careful about what
I say, especially since words come to me with so little effort. 
Friendship which not reciprocated seems to me even more
fullfilling than that which is requited.

Helmut, as you may know, was not only less than enthusiastic
about "Anschluss"; he was also unenthusiastic about my writing
and he rejected all possibility of publishing the texts that
I had composed over the years. Arguably it is only a feeble
attempt on my part to rehabilitate myself as a publishable author
when I write that Helmut's judgments about what you have written
and about what I have written reflect much less upon the quality
of our literary efforts, yours and mine, than about Helmut's
dangerous spiritual adventure as a critic of culture.

As I reread the voluminous correspondence between Helmut and myself,
my affection for him increases, and I begin to understand that 
what he has taught me, albeit inadvertently, is perhaps more valuable
than the literary reputation which at one time I hoped he would help
me to attain. I admit that it may be the acme of the viticulture of
sour grapes to assert that I have learned publically recognized
literary achievement to be a social and political phenomenon, the
fruit of efforts such as I have chosen not to make; and that I should
no more expect to become a "published author" by sitting at my desk
and writing novels, no matter how "good", than I should expect to be
elected to high public office by preaching from a soap box on the
Boston Common, no matter however eloquently.

If you would like to exchange letters with me from time to time,
please be assured that what you write to me will not remain unanswered.
My very best wishes to you for as happy a New Year as is possible.

Jochen