I have been trying to study, but my eyes become very fatigued after an hour reading the small print of a Japanese book. Fortunately, I brought with me a few books in English, which are not so difficult to read. I’m now about halfway through The Rings of Saturn by W G Sebald. No doubt you know this book, as you know everything worth reading, but I have been deeply moved by his descriptions of forgotten and crumbling places. The translation is a marvel. I would like the translator, Michael Hulse, to translate all of German literature! My German is very weak, useful only for factual material, and not of much use even then. Perhaps a translation of Faust by Michael Hulse would enable me to love a work that has never given me pleasure.

  I thought of you just now because Sebald, after a brief but horrifying account of the massacre of Serbs in Croatia during the war passes on to a young officer, later distinguished as the secretary general of the United Nations. If by some chance you don’t know The Rings of Saturn, I think you would find in Sebald a kindred spirit.

  I have now been on the Asuka about two weeks. Most of the time was spent in Alaska, going from one small port to the next. The scenery is magnificent—great, snow-covered mountains and glaciers dripping into the sea. The towns look rather like Hollywood portrayals of the Wild West [. . .]. But one has only to look up, no matter in which direction, to see the mountains surrounding the prosaic little towns.

  Those on the ship who have been to Kamchatka inform me that there is nothing to see, nothing to buy. I remember descriptions of Kamchatka from the eighteenth century when, we are told, the only commodity in abundance was vodka. I remember too what Chekhov wrote about his visit. I won’t be disappointed as long as Kamchatka is sufficiently gloomy!

  I shall be back in Tokyo on the 11th of July. This letter will probably be sent from there. We have been warned not to expect much promptness from the Kamchatka post office—letters may take six months to reach their destination. But I can’t help wishing I could surprise you with a letter bearing Russian stamps and perhaps an inscription in Russian which, on being translated, proves to be an assertion that this letter is travelling with breakneck speed to its destination.

  I hope that your work on the new novel is progressing to your satisfaction. Perhaps you will know by this time if you have received the British prize for The Great Fire. You deserve every prize, and every acclamation, but I hope this will not keep you unduly from your work. My new work goes ahead slowly, hampered by imperfect vision. But I am otherwise well and in good spirits, so no doubt I shall soon get down to the actual writing.

  [. . .]

  All my best, dear Shirley. I shall write again from Japan.

  As ever, Donald

  Naples, October 8, 2004

  Dear Donald—on coming here, I found with delight your letter from ASUKA. A long time since I last had letter from a ship, or even knew anyone sailing on what we used to call “a liner”. Your opening words, about passing in merciful fog through the island scenes of sixty-one years ago, brought to my mind the opening of part four of Auden’s wonderful 1930s long poem “Letter to Lord Byron”—a brilliantly witty “take” on Byron’s “Don Juan”, and (like B’s “DJ”) not quite in ottava rima. If you don’t yet know this poem of Auden’s, I’ll press it on you in January; when it will be the year 2005, with presumably all hell to pay. The looming election, three weeks away now, creates a dread, and suspense, felt around the world. Italy, having stuck far too long to its dwindling indulgence of America’s policies, seems now unanimously horrified: if I haven’t encountered a single soul who has a good word for Bush here, that may be, merely, because I don’t have the privilege of knowing Berlusconi.

  It’s distressing to read about your eye strain. People “like us” need our eyes not only for pleasures and work but to feel ourselves truly alive at all. [. . .] Yes, I do indeed know the work of W G Sebald. A writing voice so deeply authentic, reminding me rather of Milosz. The first book of his that I read, Emigrants, was electrifying. As you say, too, the translator is beyond praise: Michael Hulse. I have almost no German, Francis spoke German, always claiming that he’d forgotten it entirely, but always equally prompt with it, and praised, when need arose. Whenever I hear The Magic Flute, I persuade myself I’ll take German lessons—then the idea subsides. I’d like to have Michael Hulse as my teacher. [. . .]

  Sebald’s death, a mindless accident, was an example of the indifference and negligence of the gods: the most evil political figures live on without a scratch, and Rupert Murdoch flourishes in his seventies, while one’s beloved friends and admired heroes disappear untimely, like Ivan or Steele Commager.

  It would be marvellous to see Alaska’s glaciers dripping into the sea, and I envy you the experience. But my time, or my expectations of it, compels choices these days, and I’d rather return to Venice. I’m hoping, in fact, to spend ten days, over Christmas and New Year on the island of Torcello out on the freezing lagoon of Venice, where Cipriani keeps six rooms over its fine little restaurant open for those holidays. Only thus could I hope to avoid Christmas in NYC, and to be truly “away” with my new work. I could fly NYC-Venice direct, and, leaving Venice, have a few days in Rome before returning to 10021. A retreat, indeed. Then home before your own arrival. A contrast with Kamchatka, and one that Chekov might applaud.

  I hoped for those Russian stamps on your letter, but was pleased instead by the Japanese stamp announcing, in English, “International Letter-Writing Week”, and by the pink flowers reminding me of the small cyclamens ready for gathering on Capri (which is beautiful in this warm and clear October), and of the dish that you brought me from Japan commemorating our Anacapri hours.

  Thank you, dear Donald, for your warm words about my Great Fire. I didn’t win either the Orange prize in Britain, or the Booker prize but I don’t repine and have been lucky in any case. The generous prize I had in Australia came when I was in London as an Orange finalist, and I could not anyway have made the exhausting trip. However, “they” would like me to go there in June as a sort of follow-up, and I’m grateful, but fearful of mortgaging so much time and energy when I want to get on with new work. Meantime, I’ve been asked—and may accept—to the Hong Kong Literary Festival next March (a week in HK, a few days each in Shanghai and Beijing). This too would be exhausting; and emotional. I’ve, by choice, never returned to Asia. Now that my novel has been written, I feel I could make the journey this once. Everything will no doubt be unrecognisable, perhaps mercifully. But it seems unreasonable not to go, when all is being luxuriously arranged for me. The people arranging the HK festival are very keen to have articulate writers attend, in view of HK’s predicament—to emphasise their window on the world’s opinions, in the face of recent strictures.

  I won’t go to Japan yet, since in March—I think—you would not be there?

  I fear that this present participation of mine in Letter-Writing Week may be the last straw, for a while, for your recovering sight. I’m at our Posillipo place, it is mild evening, absolutely silent except for the scratching of this pen. On the 20th of this month, Francis will have been dead for ten years. In our familiar rooms, he is everywhere. But also, of course, nowhere. All the familiar books, tables, plates, the familiar Vesuvius—all have outlasted his presence. How unyielding it is, this loss and absence. Auden (again) wrote that human beings are peculiarly afflicted by having the knowledge of our own mortality; while animals and nature need not reflect on it. Sonnets of Shakespeare also full of this reflection, and Keats . . .

  I return to New York, on 7 November, with immediate roster of book-associated appointments—Chicago, Texas, Katonah . . . But then, I think, a reprieve; and Torcello . . . Can we dine together at the Academy on your return? I hope so. Thank you for such a precious letter. My great good wishes for your new work—perhaps now nearing completion? My greetings to Shiro, always. With all affection—Shirley

  PS: I wonder, does Japanese have a second-person intimate form of address? (eg “tu”), or is this incorporated into the context of speech?

  Tokyo, July 10, 2005

  Dear Shirley,

  I imagine that you will have returned to New York by now. That thought makes me wish I had not decided to remain in Japan in August. Perhaps I may yet change my mind, but I have been extremely busy with things that are more easily done here. One new experience for me is getting together all the illustrations for my new book on the painter Watanabe Kazan. I now have most of the needed color slides, but not all the permissions. In addition, I am told that transparencies reproduce better than slides. I have no idea of the difference between the two, but I am reluctant to start at the beginning again, getting transparencies instead of slides. Despite this, if all goes well, it should be an attractive book and will be the first in any European language to treat an important painter.

  No doubt you are still struggling with the piles of letters that have accumulated, but perhaps you were able in the quieter surroundings of Capri to dispose of the urgent ones. My situation at the moment is quite the opposite. I long for letters from editors, museum people, prospective donors of funds and so on, usually restraining my impatience by telling myself that the people in question have other things to do than calm my nerves.

  The voyage to the north was enjoyable, though there was still snow (in June) on the hills and occasionally the level ground in Norway and Iceland. Iceland at first was a great disappointment. Because of the many volcanoes much of the island (at least what I saw of it) is covered with lava. The view from my hotel window was bleak, a wasteland. The attraction of this hotel was the nearness of a hot spring that forms a considerable lake. One shivers in the cold until one gets into the warm water, and there one can gaze at the volcanoes that have made the hot spring possible. This probably does not sound very attractive to you, but to a Japanese this is heaven itself.

  The people of Iceland are unusually pleasant. When one asks directions of a shopkeeper he or she is likely to walk with one, at least part of the way. At the airport, just before my plane took off for New York, I bought a copy of Independent People by Halldor Laxness. I remembered that he had won the Nobel Prize many years ago, but I had never read a word. The book is not the kind I like best. It gives much attention to sheep and there are many graphic descriptions of the interior of peasants’ huts. But this is definitely a major work, whether I enjoy or not. I still haven’t finished reading it, but I read a little when I feel up to it.

  I am also reading a book called Decadence by Richard Gilman. Probably you have already read it. You read everything. But if you haven’t, it is the kind of book you would enjoy. Gilman traces the meaning and uses of the word in many countries. I feel somewhat frustrated that there are no footnotes giving Gilman’s sources but I have confidence in him.

  It is now the rainy season. Most people dislike it, but it is relatively cool, and anything is better than the torrid heat of summer. I’m going to the Nō this afternoon. This will be my third time in a week. I didn’t plan this; I just happened to be given a ticket by an acquaintance or actor. Last night was particularly moving. The performance was by candlelight. The high point was the entrance of the ghost. It must have taken him more than ten minutes to walk perhaps twenty yards. Not only was the pace extremely slow but it was accompanied by the harsh notes of the Nō flute, the whole suggesting how difficult and how painful it was for a ghost to return to this world.

  I hope that, wherever you are, you are enjoying your work and your friends.

  Best wishes as always, Donald

  Postcard, New York, December 7, 2005

  (Fateful 7th Dec . . .)

  Dear Donald—It seems, and is, long since we were in touch; and this greeting for Christmas and the impenetrable New Year is also to say how much I look forward to your 10 January arrival, and to a prompt reunion, if that is possible for you. I will myself then be recently back in New York from Venice and Torcello, where I am shamelessly returning for Christmas and New Year. We have much to catch up on—your new book—and our respective travels—New York is very cold and extremely busy. There are beautiful exhibitions, and our friends appear to thrive. I have nice times and am aware of being very lucky (Here I make the Sign against the Evil Eye . . .), but shall be glad to see Rome again, on my return journey to New York in the New Year. With all good wishes and all affection—Shirley.

  Tokyo, July 26, 2006

  Dear Shirley,

  [. . .]

  After we last met I once again was a passenger aboard the Japanese cruise ship Asuka. This time I joined the ship in Tallinn, Estonia, flying from New York by way of Amsterdam. The taxi ride from the airport was the worst possible introduction to Tallinn. The buildings were all of grey concrete, Soviet style, and there was the gloomy atmosphere typical of the old Soviet world. On top of that, I was outrageously overcharged by the taxi driver. I felt I had made a terrible mistake in opting for Tallinn as the point to join the Asuka. Looking from my hotel window, however, I could see a church steeple, and though I was exhausted from the overnight flight, I decided to make my way to the church. I walked with the steeple in sight until I passed through the great, turreted walls of the old city. Once inside, it was a different and enchanting world. I suppose that poverty had kept people from modifying the buildings in the interests of convenience and modernity, but it was a delight to walk along streets almost as silent as those in Venice. There were, of course, tourists, and shops selling amber jewelry and woolen hats for the tourists, but the architecture did not lie. I was sorry to leave after two days.

  Next, the Asuka went to St Petersburg. I had visited it briefly under its old name Leningrad in the 1960s, but although there seem to be no new buildings, the place is totally changed. The city is a marvel. I can’t remember if you have visited. If not, it would be worth making a special trip (vaut le détour). The Hermitage is magnificent, both as a building and as the repository of an incredible collection of paintings.

  [. . .]

  The journey aboard the Asuka ended for me, though not for the rest of the passengers who were on a round-the-world cruise, in Quebec. I had once before visited the city and had been disappointed, but this time I was delighted with this French city in Canada. I suppose the hotel made a great difference. The first time it was a dreary place, but this it was delightful.

  From Quebec I flew to New York and had a few days there before flying to Tokyo. Here I have resumed my life, quite unlike my life in New York. I am already weary of giving lectures, and my stay has only begun. I’m publishing in a Japanese newspaper a kind of autobiography. When I was first approached by an editor of the newspaper I said that I had already twice published an autobiography and I wasn’t sure I could find new information. She said quite politely that the two previous autobiographies had been published in books that had sold, at most, ten thousand copies, but the newspaper reached millions of readers. I hadn’t much hope of success, but the series (an episode appears each Saturday) has attracted surprising attention. It is so easy to write that I suspect it can’t be very good, but it is an agreeable experience at the age of eighty-four.

  I hope that everything goes well with you and that you have had the time to work on your new book. I would be happy to hear from you if ever the demands on your time let up.

  As ever, Donald

  New York, December 19, 2006

  Dear Donald—

  It is midnight, and I am packing for departure tomorrow to Rome—whence I’ll be going on to Naples and Capri; returning to New York on 13 January. I look forward so much to seeing you then, and learning, among other things, how your new work is progressing. I am taking my own ms and a congenial book or two to Italy, hoping to resume my work after constant interruptions of appeals, demands, TASKS, that are increasingly encroaching on my life. I come to feel that brutality (on my part) is the only solution . . .

  New York is frenzied with Christmas chaos. I enjoy seeing friends, hearing music, but the atmosphere of a crazy beehive is distracting. Otherwise, all is well privately, even while all is ill with the world; and I look forward to seeing Italy come up in the dawn the day after tomorrow.

  If, as I hope, you will be attending the Academy meeting on the 17th, can we possibly sit together? How nice it will be to see you again.

  With apologies for silence, with warmest thanks for your kind letter. With all affection—Shirley.

  Tokyo, August 14, 2007

  Dear Shirley,

  It has been a very long time since I heard from you (and since I last wrote). I seem to have lost any sense of time ever since I had my accident. When Dr Deland said, “come back in six weeks” it seemed like a small eternity, but the time passed somehow. After the stated six weeks, the cast was removed, only to be replaced with a heavier one. This time I was told to come back in five weeks. Finally, I decided I would go to Japan. A new book was to appear, and it was desirable that I be present to help with the publicity. I went back to Dr Deland who said this time the cast could be replaced by a removable boot.

  After reaching Tokyo I went to a good hospital where my foot was once again X rayed. I was told to come back in a month. Then, on the 8th of August, I saw the doctor. He informed me that the bone had not yet healed. “It will be a long process,” he said. But he also said that I need not wear the boot any longer, and that I should go about my daily tasks normally, without worrying too much about the foot. And that is where I am now.

  It has been four months since the accident. In retrospect, it seems like a period of undifferentiated, rather depressing time. But I’ve come to realize that I was lucky. Edward Seidensticker, a distinguished translator of Japanese, had a similar accident at almost the same time—going down a flight of stairs in Tokyo. He hit his head in falling, and has not regained consciousness after four months. That could have happened to me. I was also lucky in that Shiro so devotedly obtained food and everything else I needed. I cannot imagine how I would have survived otherwise, though I suppose that I could have hired someone.