In Africa, as we fought against Rommel's tank corps, we had hopes of one kind and another. Those hopes have vanished one by one ... some of us are at the bottom rung.
If I get home I will not attend church with you, or go with anyone: my brain won't stomach it: if I fail to grasp theological preachment it is due to man's insensate cruelty and nothing I can see ahead cancels those experiences. My Jesus has been a trigger Jesus. My chapter and verse have been pain and explosives.
I am an old guy from Ithaca: "giver of pain."
Orville realized that his aunt was sobbing but he could not put his hand on hers. She must endure alone.
Alone.
Here I am alone, with no brother or neighbor, or friend or society but myself: isn't that the gist of the first part of Rousseau's Reveries!
My personal discoveries would startle you because they are un-French, un-American. They are discoveries that must have been made a hundred or five hundred thousand years ago: survival!
Yesterday, Jeannette and I fished in the Nonette, each of us catching one. We fished by the old castle--a cold, cold day. I remember your portfolio of watercolors of the ruin--charming scenes. I never could do as well. Are you still sketching, Mom? There are so many pleasant places around Ithaca.
The funeral service was almost over.
Are you still dating Chris Wilson? He is a nice guy. How's his medical practice doing? Improving? Is he getting rich?