Dear Marion,

A week has passed since I had an e-mail from you, and unless
my memory deceives me, I haven't written since you telephoned.
I assumed you would not be back in your office until perhaps
today. I much hope that your cough has subsided and that you
are otherwise reasonably well. With respect to your health as
with respect to so many other dimensions of my existence, I
feel helpless. Objectively, of course I have nothing to complain
about, and subjectively I wouldn't want to complain, even if 
there were cause.

Meanwhile I've started on some serious house maintenance. Today
I installed a disconnect switch next to the electric hot water
tank, something I should have done last year when I originally
placed the tank. I also repaired the air-conditioner control
circuit board. It seems now to function properly, but I can't
be certain until the hot weather arrives. Tomorrow I plan to
continue sorting, putting in order books, phonograph records,
letters, - and just possibly starting to discard what seems
meaningless.

My writing, with which I continue, is more and more of an
embarrassment to me. I have already written far too much;
and I continue to write, very much against my better judgment.
Wer soll denn das alles lesen? I have been revising the
fifty-first chapter. I'm dissatisfied with it in its present
condition.  I estimate this chapter to be at present about
half of its final length.
http://home.earthlink.net/~jochenmeyer/freunde/f051.html
I don't know why you, or for that matter anyone else, would
want to spend the time and effort to read it. 

You know well enough that much, if not most, of our experience
doesn't make sense, and I conclude that it's my duty to carry
on, pretending that it did.

Jochen