till you taste this

I didnt read it until I got home, situated in my own huge and empty bed with no chance of medical interruption. It took me forever to decode Van Houtens sloped, scratchy script. Dear Mr. Waters, I am in receipt of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April and duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy. Everyone in this tale has a rocksolid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves. Easy enough to say when youre a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars. While were on the topic of old Wills insufficiencies, your writing about young Hazel reminds me of the Bards Fiftyfifth sonnet, which of course begins, Not marble, nor the gilded monuments / Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; / But you shall shine more bright in these contents / Than unswept stone, besmeard with sluttish time. (Off topic, but: What a slut time is. She screws everybody.) Its a fine poem but a deceitful one: We do indeed remember Shakespeares powerful rhyme, but what do we remember about the person it commemorates Nothing. Were pretty sure he was male; everything else is guesswork. Shakespeare told us precious little of the man whom he entombed in his linguistic sarcophagus. (Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect. (Full disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the MacLeish poem Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments, which contains the heroic line I shall say you will die and none will remember you.) I digress, but heres the rub: The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory. The living, thank heaven, retain the ability to surprise and to disappoint. Your Hazel is alive, Waters, and you mustnt impose your will upon anothers decision, particularly a decision arrived at thoughtfully. She wishes to spare you pain, and you should let her. You may not find young Hazels logic persuasive, but I have trod through this vale of tears longer than you, and from where Im sitting, shes not the lunatic. Yours truly, Peter Van Houten It was really written by him. I licked my finger and dabbed the paper and the ink bled a little, so I knew it was really real. Mom, I said. I did not say it loudly, but I didnt have to. She was always waiting. She peeked her head around the door. You okay, sweetie Can we call Dr. Maria and ask if international travel would kill me

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