Dear Mr. Agnon,
First, allow me to apologize because I am sure this letter will trouble you. I have read your past letters (I am sorry, I was just too curious during my research) and I realized that such disturbances bother you a lot.
You warned that those corporeal disturbances such as visiting friends, having some distant friends make a courtesy call on your place, or various events, just take away the time you dedicate to writing.
I particularly remember a letter in which you complained to your wife that even writing a letter prevents you from dedicating yourself to your works. You know more than anyone else what veiled irony is.
And what can I tell you, my teacher and mentor, the Lady Gaga of Israeli literature? We are now in the era of a pandemic.
Cities and countries are hunkering down behind walls; people are isolating behind their lock and key in their apartments, and that includes me.
You can rest assured that even though this is a nightmare for me, for you this is like Utopia. You have long yearned for such silence, and the thought of everyone staying at home is probably very welcome news and a cause for celebration.
You would have sent your assistant to the grocery store; you would have told your wife to homeschool your children and to make you a nice meal, and you would have hunkered down in your room. By the time 100 people would have died from coronavirus, you would have already completed a new Jewish epos and called your wife to have it printed.
But what am I supposed to do, my dear Agnon? We are not made from the same mettle. In these trying times, I can't write a word. My husband occasionally gives me some delicacy, but if I were to ask him to write something for me because I am stuck and have no imagination, his answer would be: "Enough already, you crybaby."
If there is one thing that has dawned on my over the past two months it's this: My whining over the daily errands that keep me from writing, or on the people I have to meet and the classes I have to teach and the family gatherings – all of those complaints are inherently flawed.
I have realized that there is nothing more essential to writing than the world itself: the living language that gets assembled on the street; the bustling sound of the busy street in which transactions are made; the people I love and all the other noisy distractions outside that should hinder the writing but actually mold it and give it inspiration.
Don't look at me with disdain over the fact that I have yet to write. I am still waiting. I am still adjusting. Eventually I will succeed and write on the loss, the change, and what's lacking. This is what you have so succinctly refined to an art in your writings.
