August 28, 2018 Dear Micha, Your letter, for which I thank you, came yesterday. This morning as I awoke, it was on my mind; I tried to remember details, and couldn't. Fragments of sentences with which I might reply (to what I couldn't remember) floated in my mind. Obviously, it was time to write, and to send you the unavoidable apologies which must accompany all my writing. The letter, of course, is just a trick to snare a reader. How else can I expect to get anyone to attend to my verbal effusions? Perhaps you're wise to eschew volumes two and three of my correspondence with Marion. Some relationships grow with time, others fade and wither. Marion's initial enthusiasm for me did not last. Even in that first volume, you may discern the seeds of her dissatisfaction. Marion laughed at my do it yourself theology. Marion criticised as insensitive my relations to my (only) sister Margrit. Marion accused me of cheating Margrit of her inheritance while Margrit was alive. After Margrit's dramatic death (chronicled in Vol 3, of the letters you won't read) Marion accused me of cheating Margrit's other heirs of their portion of Margrit's modest estate. It is an emblem of my arrogance that I enjoyed Marion's criticism. I find even derogatory attention to be better than none. Marion's last visit to Belmont occurred in July 2015, when those members of my family who were still speaking to me, - my cousin Marion, my brothers-in-law Alex and Peter, my sister-in-law Janet, and Klemens my son whom you have met, ganged up on me for the way I was taking care of Margaret, my wife of 63 years. They thought I should not be Margaret's only caretaker, that I was hurting her by not hiring strangers to participate in Margaret's care. It was a year after the gradual onset of Margaret's dementia. Almost daily she pleaded with me that we should go home, asked me where she was, and asked who was I, and protested my assurance that she and I were married: "You mean to say I married YOU?" While Margaret's siblings and our son, thought that Margaret should be reminded of, and told stories about the remote past, it seemed to me that she was unable to cope with distant memories, and that her caretakers' task was to help Margaret retain what hold her mind had on the present. Maybe the fault was too much literature in my head: Aber weil Hiersein viel ist, und weil uns scheinbar alles das Hiesige braucht, dieses Schwindende, das seltsam uns angeht. Uns, die Schwindendsten.... Rilke, 9. Duineser Elegie As I drove Alex, - he is a neurologist, - to the subway, I asked him whether remembrances of things past might not be confusing for Margaret. A day or two later I received an incensed e-mail reply to the effect that arrogant as I was, I had screened Margaret from the world all our married life while looking down upon her family, a complaint which I recite because Marion agreed, as did everyone else. Marion commented on the unusual understanding between Margaret and myself, an emotional intimacy that Marion indicated was objectionable to her. Last June, when it became apparent that Marion was in need of "assisted living" facilities, I invited her to join me in an improvised do-it-yourself nursing home here in Belmont. I was not surprised that Marion refused. Dear Micha, This is further proof of my inability to write a short letter. It is, in fact, only the preface to what's on my mind, which I will not inflict on you, but include in my daily letter to Margaret. Best wishes to Barbara and to yourself. Jochen