Since he had bought his house, Cohen’s mother had remained unconvinced that his life was secure, that he was eating well, and that he knew what he was doing. Through letters at first to his sister and then to his mother, Cohen stressed the regularity of his life: he had a cleaning lady, caring friends, and a well-looked-after home. He sent his mother recipes, described social events and chronicled his literary progress. But nothing would substitute for a visit, and in the summer of 1962, in the midst of work on his novel, Cohen had to prepare for his mother’s arrival. First he had to placate his mother’s fears. Masha was worried about rain, about dampness, and cold. “In the last six thousand years it hasn’t rained once on the island during the summer, so I doubt if it will begin in 1962,” he assured her, telling her to bring light clothes because it was hot. “You would suffocate under a mink jacket, and if you didn’t suffocate you’d be eaten by several thousand cats who have never seen a mink jacket and would suppose you to be some new kind of animal.”
