> I'm back from my mother's funeral. On the way out of the U.K. I had an idea > for a letter to "The Times." Such letters are a literary form unto > themselves. Even if by some miracle my letter were published, I'd never > know, so instead of sending mine there, I'm sending it here. Send your letter to the London Review of Books. They'd publish it. The Brits are a unique literary form in themselve. Just glance at the personal ads in the London Review of Books. Here's a sample: It came to him in a cocaine rush as he took the Langley exit that if Aldrich had told Filipov about Hancock only Tulfgengian could have known that the photograph which Wagner had shown to Maximov on the jolting S-Bahn was not the photograph of Kessler that Bradford had found in the dark, sinister house in the Schillerstrasse the day that Straub told Percival that the man on the bridge had not been Aksakov but Pavtovsky, which meant that it was not Kleist but Krueger that Cherensky had met in the bleak, wintry Gruenewald and that, therefore, only Frau Epp could have known that Muller had followed Droysen to the steamy aromatic cafZ in the Beethovenstrasse where he told Buerger that Todorov had known since the Liebermann affair that McIntyre had not met Stoltz at the Goerlitzer Bahnhof but instead had met Sommer in the cavernous Anhalter Bahnnof. Itch been eyn Berleener (gay MA ex-pat M, forties) at box no. 06/13. More at http://www.lrb.co.uk/classified/index.php#PERSONALS yrs, andreas www.andreas.com ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html