Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.


Dear Toby,

Mad? No, I wouldn’t say mad. Listen, it is your text and not mine or anybody else’s, which is precisely why I suggested that you take a few risks with it in the first place. Although you know how much I liked the title, “Siding with the Sinners”, and the ending as you originally communicated it to me in our conversations on the train and letters, I think that I understand the changes.

Thanks again for the corrections. Do you really think that taxi cabs cannot be described as surreptitious? And, I still do not understand your adamant “rejection” of the personification of the city of those years as an insolent young man. But hopefully we will have time to talk out such details shortly.

Here are the fragments that you requested. I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I ask: Are labels such as Poetry in Prose really necessary? Why wouldn’t we just call the pieces “songs” or “leaves” as in “leaves of grass”, to borrow a concept, or “dead letters” as in “dead letters sent”, to borrow another. In any case, I leave them in your hands because without your help they will never be anything more than raw material, aborted notebook ideas.

I will be awaiting your next letter with the finished copy. Hope all is well over there. Smoke a cigarette on the patio for me.

Catch you on the rebound


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