Eva Hoffman
Author
of After Such Knowledge converses with Robert Birnbaum
Eva Hoffman was born in Cracow, Poland, and with
her family emigrated to Canada in the late fifties. She received
a PhD in English and American Literature from Harvard and has been
a professor of literature and of creative writing at several institutions
including Columbia, the University of Minnesota, and Tufts. Hoffman
was an editor and writer at the New York Times, including
a stint as a senior editor of the New York Times Book Review
from 1987–90. She has written four highly regarded works of
nonfiction: Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language,
Exit Into History, Stetl: The Life and Death of a Small
Town and the World of Polish Jews, and After Such Knowledge:
Memory, History and the Legacy of the Holocaust, as well as
one novel, The Secret. She is at work on a second novel
and currently divides her time between London and Cambridge, Massachusetts,
where she is a visiting professor at MIT.
After Such Knowledge is Hoffman’s skillfully rendered
rumination on the sixty-year aftermath of the Holocaust and the
multifarious implications of the children of Holocaust survivors’
(2 G or Second generation) experience. In this well-wrought explication,
which melds the personal with the analytical, she questions the
insights that can be carried from recent history to the troublesome
present and argues for a transformation of the poignant and harrowing
family stories into a conscious understanding of a dark historical
era.
In an interview in 2000, Eva Hoffman observed, “I think every
immigrant becomes a kind of amateur anthropologist—you do
notice things about the culture or the world that you come into
that people who grow up in it, who are very embedded in it, simply
don't notice. I think we all know it from going to a foreign place.
And at first you notice the surface things, the surface differences.
And gradually you start noticing the deeper differences. And very
gradually you start with understanding the inner life of the culture,
the life of those both large and very intimate values. It was a
surprisingly long process is what I can say.” A process that
seems not to have an end point, as the conversation below exhibits.
It also, I believe, provides a clear picture of the acuity of Eva
Hoffman’s steady gaze, one that continues to look at the world
with an originality, clarity, and intellectual honesty that makes
her a pleasure to speak with and to read.
Robert Birnbaum: What passport do you travel under?
Eva Hoffman: A very good question, because I have
some passport worries right now. I have an American passport and
a Canadian passport, which, fortunately, is completely legal these
days. So when I travel to England I travel on my Canadian passport
because that's where my residence in England is registered. The
reason that might have been a vexing question until yesterday is
because I had to renew the passport.
RB: Which one?
EH: The Canadian, and there was some uncertainty about whether
it would be returned to me before I go back to England—the
cost of being peripatetic.
RB: Why do you hold two? Those two?
EH: The reason for the Canadian passport is because that's where
we emigrated to. But then I left for the States quite early on—although
my parents and my sister remained there, so it was still a point
of reference. But then I went to the States and I studied there
and I worked there and when the time came to be an American citizen
and I didn’t have to jettison the Canadian passport, I didn't.
RB: You live in England.
EH: But I now live in England. [laughs]
RB: So why not get a British passport? Or at least consider yourself
British?
EH: Yes. Well, it hasn’t been long enough, in a way.
RB: Legally?
EH: Legally it has been long enough, as a matter of fact.
RB: [laughs]
EH: Psychologically. [laughs] In terms of identity.
It's paradoxical because I don't know whether I will ever come to
feel British. On the other hand, I feel very comfortable and quite
at home in London. In a sense it's London, rather than Britain,
which is my home. I think about it these days, about getting British
citizenship, but I would not want to give up my American citizenship,
frankly.
RB: Because you consider yourself American?
EH: Yes, because the American part of me is very central and very
important.
RB: One could say that the passport is just an instrument of convenience.
Even if you get a British passport, would that mean to you that
were no longer an American?
EH: Well it's funny how much symbolic meanings get attached to
these things. I mean, I have been surprised by that. So that when
I wasn't sure whether I needed to give up the Canadian citizenship
that became a kind of issue. But the need to affirm that I was an
American citizen became quite important. They do have symbolic meanings,
these things. But my Central European friends have four passports
each and think nothing of it. [laughs]
RB: It does seem to be a contemporary attitude that people no longer
identify as much with their country as with the metropolis. People
see themselves as Parisian [rather] than French.
EH: Yes, well people do consider themselves French, I suppose.
But, yes, this is the formulation that I arrived at, [at] one point.
The great differences these days are not between one Western country
and another but between the metropolitan centers and the outlying
areas.
RB: New Yorkers don’t see themselves as Americans. [laughs]
EH: Yeah, they ought to. [laughs] But nevertheless there is a considerable
difference. When people ask me where is home I keep saying between
NW6 and the Upper West Side, and here I am in Boston.
RB: Your surname is Germanic but you assert your Polish roots and
you grew up in the Polish part of the Ukraine, but don't call yourself
a Ukrainian.
EH: No, no, no. I did not grow up there. That's easily solved.
My parents did. I grew up firmly in Poland [born in Cracow]. But
also they grew up in the Polish part of the Ukraine. They were Polish
affiliated.
RB: And your last name?
On the one hand—I
don't know if this is just my critical perverseness—I
was unhappy with the kind of reification of the notion of
the Second Generation, the mystification of that. On the other
hand, I was not completely happy with the tough-minded critical
demystification of the meaning of the Holocaust. |
EH: Ex-husband. [laughs] My original name was
awkward enough to pronounce and a source of constant irritation,
so—
RB: After Such Knowledge seems a capping off, a completion,
a culmination. Could this have been written before the other three
books?
EH: Probably not. I didn't set out for this to be cathartic. But
I think it has given me a sense of closure. You are completely right;
there is a sense of completion about it. Now, I certainly could
not have written it before Lost in Translation. And one
reason I could not have written it [was] because the problem of
being an immigrant covered over the problem of being a child of
survivors. It was the kind of foreground problematic, and it took
me a long time to arrive at these earlier problems and issues. So
there is that. Also, I couldn't have written it while my parents
were alive, I don't think.
RB: Would you have written it had there not been this loud, noisy
Second Generation phenomenon.
EH: No, I would not have.
RB: That triggered your thinking or coalesced your thinking?
EH: It situated it in a certain kind of cultural conversation.
Absolutely. For a long time my parents did not think of themselves
as survivors. I certainly did not think of myself as a child of
survivors. So it [the Second Generation] dictated a certain kind
of cultural discourse that provoked me into addressing that.
RB: Is your position one of resignation that you are a child of
survivors?
EH: It's acknowledging that it has a great meaning and a great
weight and at the same time trying to demystify the notion of being
of the Second Generation, simultaneously. So it felt like not a
completely easy balance to achieve or to think about. On the one
hand—I don't know if this is just my critical perverseness—I
was unhappy with the kind of reification of the notion of the Second
Generation, the mystification of that. On the other hand, I was
not completely happy with the tough-minded critical demystification
of the meaning of the Holocaust.
RB: In Ruth Franklin's review in the New Republic,
I thought she was very respectful to you, almost went out of her
way, especially in light of how much she kicked [Melvin Julius]
Bukiets around. I wondered—personalities aside—since
I am not well versed in these issues: Is there an ongoing controversy
about the Second Generation? Is it a controversial subject?
EH: There has not been a whole lot of controversy, in fact. It
has been accepted as a kind of tab label, identity, etcetera. But
occasionally there are these modificatory voices, or in this case
critical voices, which I do think is needed.
RB: Oh sure. You were included in the Bukiets's Nothing Sets
You Free anthology. Did you have any reservations about being
included? Were you given any outline of what the book was or intended?
EH: No, it happened very much by remote control. He happened to
call when I was on a highway in Italy, that he was putting together
an anthology of writing about—I don't even remember how this
was phrased. I said okay and referred him to my agent. He then wrote
a very mean review of my book [After Such Knowledge] in
the Washington Post.
RB: Really!
EH: So, you know, no good deed goes unpunished. [both laugh] So
I don't remember how it was phrased. I don't think the phrase "Second
Generation" was in there.
RB: I found the introduction to the anthology to be rather strident,
almost belligerent.
EH: Yeah, quite strident.
RB: In the conceptual framework of After Such Knowledge
you have seven divisions from the event of the Holocaust to the
memory. Do you see these as actual stages?
EH: Yes, but this was a difficult structure to arrive at. A part
of the difficulty was that on the one hand, there was kind of diachronic
structure—that is, a structure of ideas. On the other hand,
there have been and are stages, especially for children of survivors—let's
say people who come after. There are stages in understanding. So
I wanted to build that in as well. It was not easy, but I was hoping
to express the dialectic of ideas and the structure of the arguments
as it exists now or perhaps always. And at the same time a sense
of its trajectory, from a chronological and psychological trajectory.
RB: Some of my experience mirrors yours. My parents are from Lvov
and reunited after the war in Germany, and in my early childhood
my mother also took me to the library on a weekly basis. But the
point here is that I have never been drawn to or interested in reading
about the Holocaust. It's not a subject that I wanted to explore.
But I was drawn to reading your book, and I was struck by the accuracy
and precision of your language and description.
EH: Thank you very much. [chuckles] I am delighted to hear that.
RB: Especially with, my God, such a difficult subject in so many
ways—perhaps made more difficult if you have a personal connection
to it.
EH: Yes absolutely, and with relationships—and yet I felt
I was not in a bad position from which to write about it. My experience
was perhaps different from a lot of people who were very Americanized
and who viewed this whole history from a very American perspective.
At the same time, I think that from the greater proximity sometimes
one can see—well, the human textures of it were very present
to me.
RB: I was surprised that you were very shaken—moved by September
11. Because I am not convinced when people claim that everything
changed, [that] after that U.S. invincibility and such has been shattered. I never saw it that way. I have always thought that war
and conflict were never ending and to look around the globe at any
point in time convinces me. You began the book with—
EH: "In the beginning there was the war—"
RB: So why that didn't—
EH: Yes, why didn't I take it as just the expected events? I was
surprised myself. Very surprised. And it wasn't that it disabused
me of some notion of American invincibility or of the notion that
we live in peaceful times. It felt like an earthquake in our geopolitical
arrangement. It did feel like a very fundamental change in the world.
I suppose the apocalyptic images were there right in front of us.
That was quite something. Also, I must tell you, happy though I
am living in London and will continue to be, the immediate reaction
of those among the bien pensant, liberal people, were very
shocking to me. And there was a considerable degree of anti-American
triumphalism.
RB: As in "they had it coming."
 EH:
Yeah. Very quickly after the event. Twelve hours after. I was very
shaken by that.
RB: I have heard people claim that was implicit in the critique
of American policies by [Noam] Chomsky and [Howard]
Zinn. I don’t think that's what they mean; their issues
are more subtle. But it's too bad that progressive views were quickly
tarnished and discredited with that stance.
EH: I have heard the phrase quietly or in a circumlocutory way,
but it was there.
RB: Maybe there is no way to present or be critical of U.S. policy
without employing the phrase that got Malcolm X in such hot water,
"The chickens have come home to roost?"
EH: I didn't think that was the right diagnosis, certainly not
twelve or twenty-four hours after the event.
RB: Who actually said that?
EH: Chomsky has said that, straight out.
RB: That's also not the same thing as saying it was deserved.
EH: Tell me the difference?
RB: Let me think that one out. But as we were saying you were surprised
by your own reaction. That's a good thing, isn't it?
EH: To be surprised? I suppose. I was surprised at how shaken I
was. It must have been the familiar images of New York turning apocalyptic.
I started watching it in real time and I thought it was some sort
of H. G. Wells grisly joke—were it not for the newscasters
who guided us through it. But the complete incredulity that this—
RB: Did you continue to watch for days?
EH: No, I was there in a state of complete incredulity and a kind
of shock as it unfolded. So, as I say, I was surprised and I am
not sure I can account for it. I do think the symbolic meaning of
it was calculated on the other side. The Twin Towers, the Pentagon—
RB: Potentially the White House.
EH: Yeah, and let us not forget that at that time one didn't know
what was going to follow. And it just felt to me like a complete
upending of the known parameters of the world. An upending with
which we will learn to live and have to cope, which was not more
violent or atrocious than many things which have happened in the
history of the world and to others, but nevertheless an upending
in modern times.
RB: Gary Wills after the election wrote something about the end
of the Enlightenment because in his view people seemed no longer
to be accepting of creditable realistic reporting about the world.
EH: I had a conversation with a friend in London shortly after
and we were saying this is going on and that is going on and then
he said, "Tell me something cheerful." And I said the
Age of Enlightenment is over. [laughs] And this was exactly my sense.
I so much consider myself a creature of the liberal left, but it
seemed to me the irrationality on both sides was quite disturbing.
RB: It would seem that currently the irrationality of the Right
prevails.
EH: Yes, but we need a rational politics, to observe what is actually
going on to derive our conclusions from what we observe to get some
sane notion—
RB: You quote Barbara
Ehrenreich's book Blood Rites [Origins and History
of the Passions of War] who observes that along with all the
terrible things we associate with war there is the Dionysian aspect
which is irrational—is that what people are embracing in their
support of the Iraq war? How is it that Americans support it?
EH: I don't know.
RB: Putting aside the Enlightenment, are you optimistic about human
progress?
EH: I have felt that in many ways have we have and we do [make
progress]. It's all completely complicated by the fact that we now
see the whole globe all the time. So we are aware of all the horrible
things that go on everywhere, all the time. So it's very difficult
to measure what happens. In Europe, we reached a kind of point at
which that which can be done politically, internally, is being done,
reached a kind of exquisite political—
RB: Social democracy?
EH: Social democracies, networks of safety. Great networks of safety.
Benefits that the state gives you. This is amazing actually and
quite impressive—to achieve a consensus of what should be
done politically, at that level. That seems to me a great improvement.
The whole thing may go to hell in a handbasket, but it got to a
significant point. It seems to me our norms for what we profess
we should do [laughs] for each other have improved.
RB: Really?
EH: Well, our norms.
RB: In what countries?
I had a conversation
with a friend in London shortly after and we were saying this
is going on and that is going on and then he said, "Tell
me something cheerful." And I said the Age of Enlightenment
is over. |
EH: Our norms, not our actions. I mean, we think
we should not tolerate genocide.
RB: I like David Rieff's formulation of the phrase "never
again" [in] referring to genocide, which he takes to mean that,
"Never again will we allow Jews to be killed in Europe in the
mid-twentieth century."
EH: Yes it has turned out to be that, unfortunately. At least in
Sudan we are watching and we are trying—we have it in mind
that it would be very culpable not to do something. What happened
in Rwanda was astonishingly bad.
RB: And in Albania.
EH: In Cambodia and Yugoslavia.
RB: Odd that Central America is never mentioned, where there were
genocidal policies to do away with the Indians there.
EH: I know, I know. But I don't know if we can go do the whole
globe. It's very difficult. How have we made progress? Pain and
anesthetics. [laughs]
RB: [In his book Letters to a Young Contrarian] Christopher
Hitchens cites the inscription on the Sigmund Freud memorial
in Vienna, "The voice of reason is small but persistent."
EH: Ah, one must persist. But it is all modified by the fact that
we have always been aware of what's going on in our neighborhood
and our country and sometimes things seem better and sometimes worse.
Now we see everything, and aside from whether humankind is better
off or not, it is actually very difficult to cope with—
RB: It's not a question of access now; CNN puts us there. But after
World War II the opportunity to understand what was going on in
the rest of the world was made so easy, and yet there was what seems
like a retreat into rigid ideology and a zealous xenophobia. I'm
not sure what access to information means as Americans continue
to be xenophobic and chauvinist.
EH: There is a genuine difficulty when coping with that much information
and knowing how to respond.
RB: Well, in this matter I am a [philosophical] materialist. We
live in an economy and society that trains people to be consumers
and that's what they know about. If you meet people and ask them
about certain products and brands, they are quite aware and knowledgeable.
EH: Yes, yes. One thing I feel very fervently
about is that education in this country should be priority number
one. An insidious situation that the population of a country this
powerful is not well-educated.
RB: What does After Such Knowledge mean to you in terms
of the work you want to do and the thinking that you are doing?
Is it the culmination?
EH: I think, yes, it has provided me with a closure. I feel, in
a sense, I have addressed these issues, and the issues arising from
my Polish-Jewish background. I feel a certain kind of obligation
has been fulfilled—that there was some sense of obligation.
Sometimes conveyed to me, very literally, by my father, for example.
So I am ready to move on to other subjects.
RB: You have been referred to as a memoirist. But you have written
a novel [The Secret]—
EH: [laughs]
RB: Why are you laughing?
EH: I'm glad you noticed.
RB: At least in one conversation that I read [Berkeley] there was
some clear talk about your interest in writing, dedication to writing.
You have only been publishing books for fifteen years—
EH: Yes, a very late starter. There was immigration, having to
learn English. But, there was immigration. So I was a late starter.
But at some point I felt very compelled and impelled to go in that
direction. I worked in journalism for quite a few years and that's
very good training. But I want to do a novel next. I have done a
play, which had a stage reading in London. But no, I started my
professional life as a literary person.
RB: When you say you want to do a novel—for example Cynthia
Ozick is facile in a number of forms and she will pick a form to
work in based on what's in her head. She doesn't seem to say "I'm
writing a novel." Or, "I'm a writing an essay." But
you deliberately choose—
EH: No, no—actually that's a bit of a misstatement. There
is actually a novel that I started quite a long time ago. That has
deflected me to other books. It's a daunting book to me in my mind
because it matters to me a lot. But it's a novel because it's on
a subject that needs a novel.
RB: What subject that you would choose to write about wouldn't
be daunting, close to you, something that you were dedicated to?
What makes this different than any other subject?
EH: Not in terms of the daunting nature of the subject, but because
a novel still feels like a challenge.
RB: The British refer to the novel, to writing of fiction, as "the
senior service," don't they?
EH: [laughs] Yes, one can take that stance as well.
RB: The stumbling point for many people who are excellent writers.
EH: Yes, it’s a challenging form, still.
RB: I wonder if your experience also mirrors mine in that I look
at using English with great specificity and find myself always taking
things very literally. I often don't catch the [human] emotional
nuance when I read it. I feel often trapped by precision.
EH: I love precision in language. That is one of the pleasures
of English is that its vocabulary is so large and so nuanced and
that as one moves toward something more expansive or abstract or
metaphysical one moves through the precision and out of it. And
this I actually value very much.
RB: Perhaps the English look at it that way. Do you think Americans
see it that way?
EH: It's true that there is a more metaphysical tradition here.
But I do love that about the language. I think it keeps you honest
and encourages a kind of close work with language, which I think
is important.
RB: I wonder if natural, vernacular languages are being degraded
in an accelerated way? More colloquialisms that seem to muddy up
the language at a greater rate than ever—as a result of mass
media.
 EH:
You mean the creation of slang phrases and buzz words and all of
that? Yes.
RB: And marketing.
EH: Indeed. There is a pleasure of a language changing and of innovation.
But it's true there is a danger of a kind of reduction. One the
one hand buzz words and on the other various specialized technical
languages.
RB: What is the level awareness of your students and their ability
to express themselves?
EH: Well, MIT is a very particular kind of university. Very intelligent.
I find that in terms of personalities they are more mature than
we were. Partly because they have seen a lot of varieties of adult
behavior. [laughs] So they seem quite mature and quite knowing about
the world. For MIT students, literature is not a primary concern.
So they are not always very sophisticated about literature. But
very willing to learn. And actually what I appreciate about them
is that they are not pseudo-sophisticated. They know what they don't
know.
RB: That's important.
EH: Very important. And they don't think they should know everything
in advance. This the great merit of a scientific cast of mind, I
find. So that's very nice to work with.
RB: Your life is divided into writing and teaching. And do you
still play music?
EH: I do, I do. Yes, and it's the central subject of this novel
I am going to write. I play for myself, not very much. But I need
a piano in the house. So I can come down from my study and just
play. Oh yes, all of that. And I do quite a bit of lecturing.
RB: It seems to me that your books form a kind of textual group—not
quite canonical, but I would think that they are always being referred
to and, thus, the call for you to lecture.
EH: It's true it has been based on that.
RB: After Such Knowledge is not a kind of flash-in-the-pan
book and then turning dusty on the shelves.
EH: [laughs] Well, I hope so. Thank you very much. One never knows
when one writes how it will resonate, will it have lots of reverberations—
RB: What has been the response from the noncritical community?
EH: Very heartwarming. [laughs] I have had lots of responses from
people with similar histories, and occasionally from people with
similar histories but which are not Holocaust histories. At one
point [I was] on a radio panel in Scotland and a Palestinian guy
was reading the book and responding to it quite intensely. I was
very gratified.
RB: I was glad you referred to the Rwandan that you met at a garden
party—though I am not sure why Ruth Franklin took you to task
for that. I don't quite get that. One thing that seems to tick off
people about Jews and the Holocaust is that they seem to claim it
as the singular genocide in history.
EH: I know. This has to be changed. We have—
RB: My mother is like that.
EH: I think more should be expected from us than from survivors
themselves. They have their experiences and they are very consuming
and overwhelming. It takes an exceptional large-mindedness to see
what happens to others after them. But no, we have to disabuse ourselves
of this idea.
RB: I found Samantha
Power's book very valuable and surprisingly it received a decent
a fair reading [and won a Pulitzer] for a subject that people don't
always warm up to, a book about American policy toward genocide
in the twentieth century.
EH: It came late in the writing of my book and I have been meaning
to read it. I have read her essays.
RB: So you are alternating between Cambridge and London, and teaching
and thinking about this novel—or you have pages somewhere
and you are going back and forth on it. Is
there anything that you have a sense of surprising yourself with
in the future?
EH: In the future, if I am surprised, then by definition I don't
know what's coming to me.
RB: How about an inclination to doing something different?
EH: One of the congenial things about the creative
life in London is that you get asked to do various things. So I
have done quite a bit of radio work and that has been a surprise,
and surprisingly enjoyable. I have written and presented programs.
Recently I have done a program with a composer and a producer for
which I wrote a text on Memory and Music, which to our collective
astonishment won the Prix Italia, which is a very good
prize for radio. That was a great surprise, [laughs] you know, on
every level—and hugely enjoyable for me to work with a composer.
So you get asked to do things like that.
RB: Such unusual collaborations for unusual projects don't seem
to happen often here.
EH: Yes, it seems to work better there or more frequently. It's
a very intermingled world there. You know, I did this play working
with actors for a stage reading. So, who knows? Let me add that
Clifford Goertz, the anthropologist, did these studies of Javanese
culture and the Javanese think [that] the worst thing—as far
as they are concerned—in life is to be surprised, [laughs]
is to be caught off guard. So I was going to make this proviso—
RB: Do you read a lot?
EH: Do I read a lot? I do read a lot. A lot of time is spent reading
associated readings for my book, the research, professional readings—
RB: How about nonrequired reading?
I like reading accessible
science. People who explain science well are wonderful. |
EH: Well, what have I read lately? Novels? I like
reading psychoanalytic writings quite a bit. There is a lot of good
meaningful nontrivial writing going on. Good fiction? For example,
I was reading Leonard Bernstein's Norton Lectures.
RB: I was at one of them. At a taping at the PBS studio. In 1973?
EH: Goodness, yes. A long time ago. How wonderful. I was reading
that with my novel in mind but with great pleasure.
RB: The one thing I remember was Bernstein's emphasis on the importance
of repetition in art.
EH: Yes, he was trying to develop a kind of Chomskyian model for
music. Very interesting. Chomsky is an unsurpassed brilliant thinker
in linguistics philosophy. Occasionally a book like The Language
Instinct [Stephen Pinker] I pick up for pleasure. For example,
at some point I was in a group of therapists and analysts which
was reading in psychobiology or neurobiology and discussing that
[book]. But again this was very pleasurable for me. I like reading
accessible science. People who explain science well are wonderful.
I like having it explained to me, even though I can't recreate it
afterwards—I was trying to remember the last novel which I
was reading with great pleasure while I was feverish in bed. Which
affects one's reading quite a bit—The Fountain Overflows
by Rebecca West, which was recommended to me and also has a musical
theme in it. A wonderful novel, unaffectedly charming. I liked your
conversation
with Cynthia Ozick, by the way.
RB: Thank you. Have you met her?
EH: I have met her, but that's about it. She was extremely nice
to me after Lost in Translation.
RB: She is extremely nice. It was a great revelation that she was
never asked by her publisher to go anywhere for her books.
EH: I was amazed. I was astonished, actually. Maybe that's the
life of fiction, which I am about to discover.
RB: Have you set a deadline for yourself?
EH: No, no. I just started Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell,
and he is clearly very talented. I can tell from the first few pages.
RB: It's an oddity that there will be so much yowling about how
much junk is being published and then at the same time people will
be excited about how they discover this one or that one.
EH: Well so much gets published and it is true that the junk occasionally
covers things up. Did you meet Anne Patchett?
RB: No. But I liked Bel Canto very much.
EH: Me too. It was wonderful.
RB: Well, I hope that your novel is not too far off and that we
speak again about fiction.
EH: Thank you, that would be a pleasure.
|
Posted:
February 14, 2005
