Dear Cyndy,

The interpretation of Schiller's Ode to Joy (Hymne an die Freude) 
as a parody, as a gentrified drinking song, is my own invention,
an exercise in my own private theory of language and literature.
I take words seriously, and begin my interpretation with their
literal meaning.

Schiller wrote:

Freude, schoener Goetterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum,
Deine Zauber binden wieder was die Mode streng geteilt,
Alle Menschen werden Brueder wo Dein sanfter Fluegel weilt.

Freude, joy, happiness, bliss is denominated as a goddess.
Wir, we, the revelers enter this temple feuertrunken, drunk
with fire.  The rest of the poem is an account of ensuing
spiritual rampage. It's the song of a bunch of drunks occupying
the Park Plaza and proud of it. Consider also this quotation
from Katenus in chapter 52:
"At the same time, I admit that turning the world upside down
is, so to speak, my personal hobby.  I implore you: don't take
me seriously.  Never forget that I'm only kidding."

Once in a while I make a serious proposal:

When I read on the Internet the news stories about the
wealthiest 0.1 percent of Americans who own the country
and buy the elections, I am tempted by the question whether
it might be possible, and if so how, to become one of them
without selling ones soul. I've always taken seriously the
teaching that it's easier for a camel to go through the eye
of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven, and I've not
infrequently pointed out to my patients that they were
jeopardizing my salvation by insisting on paying me. In such
light one might ask whether without selling ones soul it is
possible even to ask the question whether it might be possible,
and if so how, to become one of 0.1% wealthiest without
selling ones soul. What do you think?

On February 15, 2012, I received and paid a bill for $426.62 to
defray the cost of the 105.6 gallons of oil that we had burned
in the preceding 14 days to heat this large empty house. I decided
then and there that rather than to continue to burn money at such
rate, I would prefer be chilly, if not indeed cold. I turned off
the oil burner; Margaret, who, if the Pope knew what he was doing,
would long since have been nominated for sainthood, was agreeable.
She and I bundled up in warm clothes. Except for the nights when it
was necessary to keep the pipes from freezing, the oil burner has
remained off.

The situation gave me to think. If we could buy electrically heated
trousers and electrically heated long-sleeved shirts we wouldn't
need to purchase any oil, and the quantity of heat (in BTU's) required
to keep us comfortable would be negligible, compared with the BTU's
needed to warm even a single room of the house. Why not? Given the
potential shortages of oil and its high price, wouldn't there be a
potentially very large market for practical, inexpensive electrically
heated clothing?

There are, to be sure, technical problems, but these seem to me far
from intractable. The specification and design of the heated cloth
is most immediate and most critical. One might embed in the cloth
electrically heated cables such as are used in electric blankets.
One might use a conductive fabric graduated to appropriate resistance.
One would need thermostatic control of the temperature. One would
need an arrangement of preplaced electrical cords to plug into the
clothing. At a subsequent stage of development one might consider
use of rechargable batteries, and also the use of induction coils
to transfer energy from the electrical supply to the clothing.

Addressed individually, all of these strategies seem feasible, although
there is probably more work than can be performed by one individual.
The challenge would be to create an organization first for the development
and then for the marketing of the product. Last evening I reviewed
the Internet offerings for heated clothes. They are available for
motorcyclists, snowmobilers, industrial workers exposed to the cold, 
but there's nothing such as I envision for domestic use. I can't do
everything by myself. I wish I could.

Please give my best to Ned.

Jochen