I’m sorry about not making it during the break. I really had intended to come back but was swamped by the amount of work I have to do and break is the only quiet time in the dorms. For some reason I can never say no to anyone and actually agreed to go to three people’s houses for dinner this week. I’m everyone’s favorite orphan.

It was fun, though. On Monday it was Professor Corey Thatcher and his wife, Alice. I adore them, but they’re like one two-headed creature talking at you without cessation.

Wednesday was dinner at the home of my friend Pierce. Boston Brahmins. A vast house right in the middle of town, with twelve bedrooms. I got stuck with his dad, an arrogant bore whose nostril hairs seemed at the trembling verge of sentience.

Then to Rachel’s house. I can’t remember if I’ve ever told you about Rachel? I met her in the Student Union. She had been to India and just came up and started talking to me. Her family’s Jewish but not orthodox. Her father’s a lovely man who does something in textiles. Her mom’s job is to be cruel to Rachel (Rachel warned me). Horribly critical all the time. Whenever I glanced at her mom, she was staring hawkishly at Rachel. It’s as if she’s in love with her and hates her for it. Rachel told me that her mom lost her family in the war and spent some years in a concentration camp. I noticed that she didn’t eat any of the cake she gave us but polished off the crumbs on our plates. Rachel reminds me a little of you. She has hair like yours, long and curly and very dark. But she’s rather fierce. Like her mom, she can’t stand stupid people and makes no attempt to hide her impatience or contempt. She’s very smart, but I’m not sure how imaginative she is. It’s as if she perceives Imagination as the idle, alluring brother of Intellect, a brother who, if he ever got hungry, would sell his birthright for a bowl of lentil stew. Which, of course, he would.

Anyway, summer I’ll definitely be back. Can’t wait to see little…?

Love,
Raj

Dear Raj:

Thanks for your concerned note. I’m sorry for not writing back to you in so long. I have to admit I don’t know how to respond to your letters, which are general, comic set pieces and not part of a conversation. Your last letter made me angry to the point of despair. How careful you are to make me feel you’re not enjoying yourself, that everyone around you is silly and grotesque. And you’re doing it because you pity me. You’re trying to show me that you are not quite in that world, when I know you are. You are. And to pretend you’re not is dishonest and condescending. You even insult the people you like because you think it will make me feel better somehow.