As you may rightly guess, Nation, I don't have many letters left to write. Just a few more. How many, you can easily guess.

I am facing a few final dilemmas. Along the way, I have had various ideas, at times even full conviction about how to resolve them. Some solutions were crazy, many rather foolish. It's not easy to explain, even to myself, what ultimately lies behind the decisions being made. I am not fond of the vague exaltation towards the idea that the work itself decides, or the author from beyond the grave. But it's hard for me not to believe in parallel worlds and occasional glimpses into them. Not metaphysical. Not violating any natural laws. In line with the principle that what can be thought can happen, and what can happen has already happened, or will happen someday. And in a certain sense, it all just is. So it is permissible and necessary to think as much as possible, anything, everything even, but escaping the decision of what remains in the content of the work is not allowed. It's not possible, anyway. All those after-modernist attempts to free the work and the recipient from the dictatorship of the author seem ultimately silly to me. Naive and cowardly. And their results boring.

So, just a bit more to come.