Dear Charlie,

When I write a letter, it's not so much the commitment that bothers me -- a commitment to a certain mood when, actually, that mood no longer exists by the time the letter is read -- may never exist again! and there it lies in black + white as a sample of your own (my own) thought! What bothers me is partly that; what prevents me from sending the letters is also partly that I'm certain I enjoy reading them, over + over, more than anyone else could, (nothing like opening a fresh, stamped batch of letters written by yourself some months ago!)

Mainly, I've realized, the letters bother me because they inevitably show up my own imperfections. Which leads to something else: it is especially difficult to write to you because (if I read you correctly) you do not tolerate imperfections. Selective imperfections: that is, you do not tolerate things that a person could change to make himself better, but doesn't. Good -- but, Charlie, either everything really is that simple (cowboy heroes) or it just isn't (20th Century psychological novels). And it's important to know if you're right or not. On one hand I see this way of thinking in you (a lack of compromise) as something limiting, and on the other hand it's appealing. That's the way I have to feel about religion too, that

1. it's obscurant, limiting, short-sighted or
2. that it's right! it's simplicity is deceptive, and goodness isn't all that complicated!

It's only the romantic in me that wants to believe you, or Catholicism. (I'm not confusing the two).

I've noticed that German authors have a tendency to schematize everything into 2 opposing categories (thus: a struggle which can never be resolved). Hesse has "Abraxas" which is God/Devil, one figure ("Demian"), Mann has 2 men, 1 classic pagan + the other religious, intuitive, battle it out in words all through "The Magic Mountain", and Gunter Grass ("The Tin Drum") gives his hero 2 influences: Rasputin (mystic) + Goethe (rationalist). So, Charlie, I find myself putting you + Ira into opposing camps, for the moment, + I'll think about it.

Charlie, does this kind of stuff bore you? I remember that once (the night we all stayed in my room) you remarked that I was intelligent, but...

I'm not bloodless, but anyone who sees Ayn Rand as a model projects a love of cold perfection that is intimidating.  Why do you have imperfect friends?  Or have I completely misunderstood you?

Charlie, I look over this letter + it is more accusing + belligerent than I would have wanted.  I just felt that I've never actually known you very well, so I thought I'd try to get below the pleasant facade (yours, not mine) for a change.

You can write too if you're not chicken.

Mary