Letters to his Parents by Theodor W. Adorno

Author:Theodor W. Adorno
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780745695020
Publisher: Wiley
Published: 2014-08-12T13:00:25+00:00

1945

128 LOS ANGELES, 12.1.1945

Los Angeles, 12 January 1945

My dears,

a thousand thanks for your letters and the alcohol parcel, as large and heavy as an unshapely hippo, which arrived today in the best condition, without any breakage, only a few minutes after the letter. It had been packaged with a love and care that would already have been touching in itself, even if the parcel had been empty – and it is anything but empty – considering the miserliness with which we guard all the alcohol you have ever sent us, it will be a long-lasting supply (guests are normally only served Californian booze or at the very most rum or whisky and your wine and schnapps are only opened on the most special of occasions). I really cannot tell you how happy we were. I am especially eager to sample the Bénedictine. Incidentally, we only discovered the giraffes on Gretel’s belt upon closer inspection, and hold the ornamental animals in particular esteem.

It is nothing short of a scandal that the Horkheimers did not drop in on you, an outrage for which there can be no excuse. Certainly Fritz is ill, with exactly the same thing – except for the most specific symptoms – that Gretel had, and is bedridden; and Max is kept busy by the Jews until late at night, and is evidently not at all content with his lot. But considering the relationship, all this is insufficient as an explanation, and Maidon should at least have found her way to you despite all hindrances. It is not out of ill will, simply stubborn self-centredness, the inability to deviate from one’s own path. I was on the point of writing a furious letter, and only refrained for the most basic material reasons. Such things are much better said than written, and also sharper, yet without becoming as objectified as they would in a letter. But you can believe me that I will give Max a thorough talking-to as soon as I am in New York. That is precisely why I would ask you not to let on when Maidon comes – vengeance is mine,1 spake Archibald. But there is more culture in the knots of the string wrapped around the wine package than in Maidon’s entire existence, and it is a mystery to me why Max lets her have her way. Our wine package from the Horkheimers has still not arrived, incidentally, despite having been announced countless times.

My current plans are – sauf imprévu, as a Louische would say – as follows: I will leave for Berkeley on 2 February, stay there for a week, go to New York on the 9th, should arrive there on the 13th. Pray that it works out and nothing gets in the way. –*

I need hardly tell you what satanic delight I derived from the news that you had terminated all relations with the brood, any more than I will divulge my reflections on Louis that followed your letter. You will see soon enough what a brood the brood is.

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