Every few months, I find myself reading my own writings from a particular period. For some reason, I am attracted to the mid- to late Eighties this time around. This is one of my least fruitful periods. I was teaching at MIT, and there was little time for foolish things. But there is a forlorn tone to almost everything from this period. I was awfully alone. The Institute struck me as a monastery of sorts. Although I was close to some of my colleagues and students, much of my time I spent by myself. And my writings reflect it. Looking back, I cannot but notice the difference between MIT and Motovun. Even when I am alone in the hilltown, I am never destitute. I am close to quite a number of people, and our closeness is growing over time. At best, the Institute was a community of loners, many of whom stayed there for several years only, whereas Motovun is a true community. People are born here, and many of them die here, as well. It is ridiculous to compare such disparate places, but I am forced to compare them in terms of my own life. As well as my own writings. Even now, about three decades later, I feel kind of sorry for myself in those years. The past cannot be changed, but I am still eager to change it. The best I can do under the circumstances is to write an occasional addendum to my writings of old. There, not even the past is impregnable!