Dear Saul,

I just finished your book and I have to say that I quite liked it. This word "like" is of course problematic and plain and so in need of a redressing, but what else shall I say. I'm left with a sense of my own insanity. That's how deeply I was drawn in by the last chapter. After I'd finished I put the book down, stood up, put that massive piece of oak on the fire in the woodstove because I'd been saving it for a cold night like this one, then I put your book and my moleskine on the table, opened up the notebook computer and, having decided in advance that I was going to write a series of letters to childhood friends, walked over to the kitchen to do something else.

That else, was culinary. You see, through the whole reading of the last chapter my stomach felt off. I can't quite figure out why though. I'd had pasta with a nice red sauce, a simple salad with a garlic dressing, and a glass of ale (an IPA). It was all quite tasty, but shortly thereafter I felt the stomach roil. Mind you, I'd had a few potato chips then too. Whatever, I was in a state of some discomfort as I was finishing your book. Was it sympathy for Herzog? There would have to have been some of that. That is not to say that I'm totally on his side. He makes me shake my head sometimes. But I'm sure that I make those that know me shake their heads too, so there's no surprise there. Moses was a real kind of guy. A mensch of course.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was going to the kitchen to do something culinary. I was seeking something that might take the turbulence out of my stomach. Strangely enough I was not interested in a nightcap. It didn't turn my stomach so much as not excite my stomach. Whatever the case, I did not feel that having a snort of rye was going to improve things. So I rooted about the kitchen for a bit and, as it often is with me, I found something to eat that was, as it were, on the edge of proper consumption. That is, it was about to be declared (by most I would presume) to be unfit for eating. From about two weeks ago there were five remaining California naval oranges in the box with the other citrus fruits. These five were shrunken and hard-skinned. I'd cut up one of them the other night though, and found that beneath the dry, hard rind there was still juicy, sweet flesh. So today, I thought I'd cut up the last five and prepare a glass of "fresh" squeezed juice. After all, my throat has been tickling me lately. A good dose of citrus couldn't hurt (I know, there's a limit to how much vitamin C your body can absorb in a day, and I'll likely just pee out most of the nutrients and be left with a natural sugar high).

This then is what I did. It took me about 20 minutes to quarter the oranges and hand-squeeze them into a latte bowl. My right hand is now a bit sore from the process. Those five oranges yielded about 10 ounces of juice (I'm sure they could have yielded an ounce or so more had I used a proper juicer, but we haven't got one.). Once I'd cleaned up the peal and washed the utensils (I actually do like to keep the kitchen clean, and I prefer to clean up the bowls and pots and knives and so on immediately after I use them, so that I can eat without thinking of the mess that's left.) I took up the bowl of juice and took a first sip. It was quite a different experience from drinking that stuff from concentrate. More tart, and less soupy. That is, the juice itself had clarity, not that murky, thick, yellow cream that you get from those tetra-paks. I told myself to take it easy, to enjoy it, but within a minute I'd finished it all. As I write this I believe it's been about an hour since I drank it all and rinsed the bowl, dried it, and put it away.

Anyway, back to your book. I sure like Nietzsche too. And women, although I'm no lothario, like Moshe. I'm no philosopher or academic either. I have read a bit from most of the guys Moses discusses, but I think I'll have to read a lot more before I can write the sorts of letters you had your man Moses put down. About that letter-writing thing: it sure let you show off a bit eh? You could name drop authors and ideas with impunity. You create this brilliant, peripheral, enigmatic, and off-balance scholar, and you just get into his head and let him go! Great idea. You're a bit of a show off to do it though, don't you think? Nah. I know. I'm just jealous. Fair enough. I should be reading more. I could blame the internets for their time-sucking abilities, but that would only be an admission of failure. No, I just have to accept the words that come for me these days. And there are a few of them you know. They're waiting to get out. Every single one.

PK