26 August 1995 

             I'm writing from an old house in Deene called The Seahorse. I was
             remembering the night you spilled Burgundy all over my parents'
             bedsheets. Good heavens: talk about a guilty streak. So what have you
             been doing with your quiver full of gifts? It was windy last nite and
             the chimneys were singing softly in different keys. Earlier we found a
             baby squirrel whose mother had been killed by a motorcar. Sissy has
             been feeding it 2% milk out of the palm of her hand and just boiled six
             brown eggs for it.(!) His eyes have opened and he's called "Chief".
             We'll either set him loose soon (there's the dilemma of the cats), or
             Hazel will take him back to London. We came over on the Ferry from
             Holland last Sunday but saw no whales. Matthew gambled on the slot
             machines and won 175 Dutch Guilders, enough for a nice box of
             cigars and a bottle of Lagavulin. Uncle Prism had threatened to show
             up at the festival, but we have not seen him--although there was
             somebody singing, a barrel-chested baritone up on the hill in the
             woods after midnight, a song with a vaguely familiar ring, something
             like, "Gloria, my heart is a knotted lifeline, the world is *drowning*
             you..." If you were here I would show you the stars reflected on the
             lake. We would sneak into the private chapel. You would be tender
             and happy but always sad.

             Lord I miss you,

             L. Saint Jerome

             P.S. Always remember: to forget is a form of suicide. (If I could only
             remember to forget myself.)