The great thing about walking–I mean really walking, the way Gimpel the Fool walks away from everything he owns or thought he owned and into the white fires of metamorphosis in Isaac Bashevis Singer’s story–is that you can’t help leaving your material idols behind, whether they’re little kitchen gods or your accrued-over-years poetry books (in a beautiful new green-and-white room) or antique toys or some other heap of things. And then there’s bound to be more room for something bigger and wilder.

But what I meant to say is that I sent you something buggy (not a virus!) that you want. Probably it is at the wrong address: perhaps one of your private ones? You are so multifarious in e-land!

Oh, and that business about Rachel and the teraphim: very curious. Perhaps she lies; perhaps she utterly defiles Laban’s guarantees-of-fortune by sitting on them while menstruating. And I would say that her husband has an encounter shortly after that falls into the category of holy-and-wild.