Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. I much hope that as the days and weeks pass,
you are feeling better.

The solitude is wonderful. I sometimes think of Thoreau at Walden Pond.
I have no visitors at all. Only daily, - or almost daily telephone calls
from Klemens in Belmont, and from my parents' old housekeeper Jeane Walls
down in the valley. I consider it an idyllic existence. Aristotle, who 
wrote that only animals and gods can survive solitude, would identify me 
as an animal, which is o.k. by me, although I would argue with him about
the solitude of gods. I was taught they are surrounded by throngs of
trumpeting and singing angels. I hope they have earplugs.

I share your anticipation that our writings will be lost to posterity.
Makes no difference to me. My writing is only for myself. It gives my
life another, a stabilizing dimension. I've been writing more sonnets, -
so far 95 already. Some are not very good, but others are very meaningful
to me.

With the fast internet connection available to me now, I've been able
to view and hear a very good performance of Figaro, an opera I've long
resisted because of the patent frivolity of the plot; I begin to value
the frivolous plot as a truthfully profound rendition of the shallowness, 
brutality and mendacity of conventional "family" life, to which the 
dialectic of lightness and profundity in Mozart's music is the most 
appropriate accompaniment I can imagine. 

Its a warm clear evening. The mountain laurel outside the open door is
in full bloom. I've run out of things to say, and will write again soon.

My best to both of you.

Jochen