Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. I infer, I hope correctly, that, as the statisticians
would say, adjusted for age, you are comfortable, in relatively good health
with no apparent acute problems. How is Ned?

As for the state of my physical health is concerned, I'm not aware of any
problems other than my arthritic hips which prevent me from ladder use, running,
skiing, donning socks and tying shoes. I've given up using ladders from which I
must swing to an upper surface such as a roof. No more running or skiing. 
I bought a $9.50 gadget from Amazon.com call "sock-ease" which eliminates
the difficulty of putting on socks, and as long as two years ago, I bought
two pairs of velcro-strapped shoes, which solve the dilemmas caused by
shoe-laces.

So far as my spirits are concerned, - my mental status, if you want to be
professional and scientific, I can't say, not because I don't (strive to)
know myself, but because rational criteria for mental health are non-existent,
and conventional social standards don't apply to someone who has devoted his
entire life trying to be "different". My emotions are on a roller-coaster;
they oscillate with appalling rapidity. I would argue that being up and down
and up and down is preferable to being down all the time.

I'm anything but a merry widower. As a matter of fact, I've suspected for a
long time, and now I'm certain, that the distinctions between life and death
are overblown. For example, last evening and all day today, I've been 
re-reading the correspondence between Margaret and myself between January 1,
1950 and September 3, 1950, an activity as a result of which the events
of 66 years ago control my awareness of the present. Those events are more
vivid and compelling by far than what happened, for example 66 days ago.
If I can keep this up, I can crow with the rest of them: Oh death where is
thy sting, Oh grave where is thy victory.

I discover myself completely isolated in this large cathedral-ceilinged
third floor room with ten large windows on the suburban landscape, views
of snow-capped roofs and squirrels clambering on the branches of leafless
trees. My only regular visitor is Klemens who comes for about 10 minutes
three to five evenings a week. On the days he doesn't come, he sends me
an e-mail message under subject headings such as "gone to bed" or "exhausted".
In the four months since Margaret died, my daughter-in-law Laura came once,
formally and properly to express her condolences. The same is true of my
grandchildren Rebekah, Benjamin and Leah. Nathaniel stopped by once after
his return from Berlin on February 9, and today he telephoned me from New
Haven where he's involved in the production of some Wagner opera. 

Please don't misinterpret my description as a complaint. On the contrary,
the isolation makes me neither uncomfortable or sad. The silence created
an emotional space that made it possible for me to put together 70 sonnets,
which I dictated into the computer and burned onto a CD. Now I take pleasure
in listening to myself reading my sonnets when I drive, for example, to the 
grocery store, a level of narcissism which even I had not reached before.
I may be repeating myself when I note that I recognize in my life a pattern
of palindrome. Before I fell in love with Margaret, (at the tender age of 19)
I had reconciled myself to a life of solitude. That year I applied to the
Forest Service for a position as watchman in a National Forest fire tower,
a fate from which Margaret saved me for 66 years. I consider myself well
prepared and positioned for the solitude of the remainder, the shorter the
better.

My immediate project is to try to expand the 70 sonnets into odes, elegies
and or hymns, poetic forms which obviously facilitate the account of
ideas and feelings both broader and deeper than what can be conveyed by
a sonnet. So far I'm dissatisfied with the results, but I'll keep on
trying.

Please give my regards to Ned, and yourself, stay as healthy and content
as circumstances permit.

Jochen