On switching languages

Dear B

I cannot find it in my heart to stop loving you, despite the fact that, obviously, when push come to shove, I cannot count you at all. Because i have loved you for so many years, we can continue to correspond, therefore; and you may always count on me -- though I shall not count on you (surely, your failure is no reason for me to fail); further, you can also relax in the secure knowledge that I should never again try to ask a favor of you.

I should add that our recent experience has been typical of all my experiences with your countrymen. How I wish my parents had had the good sense to pick another country to exile me to -- any other country, really. Then, after 25 years, I might have friends there; who knows, perhaps I'd even learn (apage satanas) to call the place a home?

As it is, I have to deal with the heaviest and most difficult legacy of my parents' choice: the language. I am scarcely fond of it in the literary sense -- apart from Shakespeare I do not really like reading any of its literature; yet, despite this, I have made of it my principal tool of thought and expression.

Now, as a tool of thought, it is not a bad medium; but as a tool of expression it carries one major drawback: by using it, I am per force addressing myself to people like you; which is, of course, a waste of time: you Americans neither could understand nor want to; nor do I especially want to be understood by you. When such a miracle happens -- rarely -- you fellows gain something, but I -- I gain nothing in return. The idiotic comments I have received from the best of you on my former blog are the living proof of the fact.

I need another language: almost any other language would seem preferable. But this is going to be hard at my age; and it is going to take time.

And which language should it be?

French?