den (not out of cunning, but because he had always taken the traps of others for their dens), but then decided to become cunning in his own way and arrange his self-made trap, which was only big enough for him, as a trap for others. This again revealed his great ignorance of the trap business: nobody could really fall into his trap, because he was sitting in it himself This annoyed him; after all, it is common knowledge that, despite all their cunning, all foxes occasionally fall into traps. Why shouldn't a fox trap—especially one built by the one fox with the most experience with traps—be a match for the traps of men and hunters? Obviously because the trap did not make clear enough that it was a trap. So our fox hit upon the idea of decking out his trap as beautifully as possible and sticking clear signs all over it that quite plainly said: Everybody come here; here is a trap, the most beautiful trap in the world. From then on, it was quite clear that no fox could ever have strayed into this trap unintentionally. But still, many did come. For this trap served our fox as a den, after all. If one wanted to visit him in the den where he was at home, one had to go into his trap. Of course, everybody could walk right out of it, except him. It was literally the flesh on his bones. But the fox living in the trap said proudly: So many fall into my trap; I have become the best of all foxes. And there was even something true in that: nobody knows the trap business better than he who has been sitting in a trap all his life.
6. Hannah Arendt to Martin Heidegger, April 6, 1954
[This previously unknown letter was found by Dr. Hermann Heidegger in his mother's papers only after the Arendt-Heidegger correspondence was first assembled and published.]
Martin,
I am writing to tell you that Mr. Robinson's translation has arrived—and I was pleased that you referred him to me. Unfortunately, closer examination put a damper on my pleasure, and I