THOUGHTS IN RESPONSE TO A LETTER FROM A VERY BRIGHT YOUNG FRIEND

I made a trip to India. The least I can do is say something about what I learned from being there. India is literally, graphically, honestly amazing. In every way. The crowds, the noise, the pollution, the seeming carelessness of human life. The beauty of the land, and of the people. The kindness. The food. The traditions. The quiet, out in the mountains.

Modern motor-driven rickshaws by the thousands, everywhere. They are open, noisy, unmuffled, two-stroke three-wheelers painted black and bright yellow. Taxis, everywhere--for practically nothing. Ten US cents for a ride--fifty cents is it's more than a mile or two. In cities driving is a free-for-all; there aren't sides of the road, really—everybody drives in any direction anywhere.

Driving through a park bigger than Yellowstone, with a single winding road--104 hairpin turns in a 45 km. stretch, up a mountain. Signs: "Respect the Monkeys. The live here." And hundreds of them, sitting beside the road, or on a parked car, chattering. "Remember: Elephants have the Right of Way." "Stay in your Car. Lions and Tigers don't like to be Petted." Two tigers playing on the road. Elephants crossing it. A lion standing on a big rock, posing.

Eating with your hands. Eating the first meal in anybody's house off a banana tree leaf instead of a plate.

Mostly no alcohol.

A wonderful place, literally. In every way wonderful. And wonder is overwhelming when it is so relentless. By the end of ten days I was in some way used to India: numbed by it, in some ways—or numbed to it. But also able to see that the rest of the world—even successfully civilised Germany—is India, but not so densely, intensely, unremittingly so.

You mention graduate school. Study something worth studying, intellectually (for you) and substantial (for society). Something that will let you use your mind in a personally rich and socially valuable way. Thought isn't a fad. And we certainly haven't exhausted any of the important things to think about. (Does Homer still have value? A hell of a lot more than James Bond. And people who think otherwise should maybe read enough Homer to be able to help students read Homer--and see which they prefer. I would bet my life's earnings on Homer.)

We have had no winter this year. Usually winter has come in late November, and lasted though mid-March. This year it was cold--in the 20s--overnight twice. Otherwise, above 32.

Enjoy Washington State. Thank God for the Space Noodle: a monument (de pluribus unum) to care-less-ness in a world where people starve. And it's not even new--or so very extravagant. How about the Seattle Coliseum? It must have several of them, like every city does.

In New Orleans somebody who goes to the Superdome (now the Mercedes Superdome) spends more in an afternoon than a black family in the city spends in two weeks. There will be 70,000 in the Superdome every Saturday or Sunday. Once a week. The really poor number maybe 100,000, and they are there every day of the week.

I find it more and more difficult to travel. I went to India, to see an Indian student friend and his family. I was on my way to Korea, where I teach English for free for three weeks every spring. I can almost justify, in my mind, the Korean trip. I didn't do anything to justify the Indian trip, except to learn something about the way one sixth of the world's population lives. Now I have to so something with that bit of learning.

Sometimes the whole of existence--which is so utterly wonderful--seems overwhelmingly oppressive. The Pulitzer was a wee beam of bright light. Maybe the Norwegians will give Snowden the Peace Prize. (They should ask for Obomba's Peace Prize back--he isn't moral enough to give it back--and give it to Snowden.)

Turn off the electricity in all the world's (i.e., the US's) football and baseball arenas. That would be a big start toward cleaning up our planet. And then turn off all the advertising lights. And the burn-all-night lights in skyscrapers.

Blackouts at night. Close the shopping malls when it gets dark. And for those of us who want to read at night? Well, maybe we should talk--or think--instead.

Why not?

I have to quit. A neighbor—not really a neighbor, but a nearby noise-maker—is playing his stereo loudly. My windows are closed, but from somewhere up the street—in what I usually think of as civilised Saarbruecken—somebody is abusing himself and me with the mindless thump-thump of his expensive machine.

Love,

                                      Bert