I'll try to keep from
planting radical thoughts in the virgin soul, but I'm tempted.
Oh Skilly dear I'm lonely as the devil. Would it be too bromid.
to say I wish you were here? I put out my hand in the darkness,
& yours wasn't there. My dear, my dear, how desolate--Oh you
understand it only too well with your supercilious grin & your
superior eye-glasses & your beatific Oxonian ignorance of poor
eager America.
I suppose I _am_ just a barbarous Californian kiddy. It's just
as Pere Dureon said at the atelier, "You haf a' onderstanding of
the 'igher immorality, but I 'ope you can cook--paint you cannot."
He wins. I can't sell a single thing to the art editors here or
get one single order. One horrid eye-glassed earnest youth who
Sees People at a magazine, he vouchsafed that they "didn't use
any Outsiders." Outsiders! And his hair was nearly as red as my
wretched mop. So I came home & howled & burned Milan tapers
before your picture. I did. Though you don't deserve it.
Oh damn it, am I getting sentimental? You'll read this at Petit
Monsard over your drip & grin at your poor unnietzschean barbarian.
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