Are you wearing pajamas? I do not mean to begin this letter by getting personal.I was just wondering if you people leave the house anymore. Somthing that seems to be increasingly unnecessary these days, A hundard years ago.

Are you six-feet-six? Are you fly-fishing on Mars? Are you talking on the cell phone? We are, usually.

As lovers leaving lovers say. By the time you read this,I`ll be gone. Or posibbly I won`t.Given the way life is being prolonged these days. I, with my pig`s liver , titanium hips and knees,artifical heart,thranplanted kidney and reconstracted DNA,could write this letter in my centry and pick it up in yours.

I write you in a dead winter from a summer village by the Atlamtic Ocean. The last of houseflies beats its body against the window,through which I watch the tremors of a berry trees and the shorn stoic trees.
Afternoon lowers on evening,the sky is the color of unpublished silver. A Cole Porter song, In the still of the night, goes throught my head. I do not know why.

We are generally content, generally at peace, generally optimistic, and with good reason.We are generally rich,more people have homes theirs own.We are generally healthy, thanks largely to remarkbale advances in medicine.People who died of certain dieases even 30 years age are rountinely saved today.

In short,we are generally OK in spire of notable low spots and areas of significant concern. Our movies are mostly silly. Our books? Mostly small.The quality of our culture criticism is generally so low that one can not tell how good or bad any others is.But in lierature, at least, it is highly unlikly that any writer toured as a heavyweigh in our era or make it to the ring in yours.Movies that once were judged by normal artistic crit