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#0601: Willa Cather to Dorothy Canfield Fisher, [June 17, 1922]

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Dear Dorothy1;

Sometime when you come back from Rome3 won't you let me come to talk to you abouta few things that I want to talk of with you more than with anybody else? Futurist4 art painting, and 'wide open' art, and the vanishing conception of Sin, which is going to leave people of our profession bankrupt. I'd give a great deal to have a long session with you about these things. We knew one world and how we both felt about it. We now find ourselves in quite another. I wish I knew how it all strikes you.

Anyhow, it's a great pleasure to me to see you looking so well as you did yesterday. You were much too thin when I saw you a year ago, but now you look absolutely yourself, as if your life had made you more and more yourself instead of different and strange, as it does so many of one,s old friends. I've rushed at you for Claude5 as if he were a sick child and you were the doctor, but when that is over I don't see why we shouldn't have something for ourselves.

I sent the proofs to Arlington6 this morning. There is no strin need for you to send them back, so don't add that to the chores of departure. You can cut them if you wish to quote. I forgot to tell you that I'd rather you didn't hint it was about anybody of my own name and blood7,- otherwise there are no restrictions of any kind. No use my trying to tell you how grateful I feel to you for undertaking this review8 in the hurry of departure, when you of course ought to be hoarding every bit of your strength for you own book9. If I were very noble, I'd have snapped Lewis10 up last night and taken this task off your shoulders. But I'm not noble enough for that. Long before you came to see me last year I'd been wishing I could get your impression of this story. I felt that nobody I knew had both ends of in hand like you. And I felt that like yo me, you knew that I was almost the last person to do such a story; therefore, if it got across, you would instantly recognize it.

I did enjoy the party last night. Harcourt11 is fine. He's a new type of publisher to me, and a very engaging one. I felt less of the hopeless constraint that I always feel with publishers with him than with any other man of his profession I've ever met; as if I had some common language with him. You see vellum and hand-laid paper12 mean nothing to me, anymore than they would to "Claude's folks," as you happily termed them. I know they are meant as a compliment, and try to look pleased, but they leave me cold. I have my own kind of fastidiousness, but the idea of twenty-five dollar books for collectors is repulsive to me- - -it's making a lot of dead books. I should think it would make even booksellers feel that this is a sort of George Moore13 affair. I had not heard of this lovely plan before, and it rather floored me when he sprung it on us. Lord, what did vellum mean to Claude, or his dear, dear Mother? And sure this book was written to them, if ever one human being did a thing for and to another. All I got out of it was to be close to their noble selves as I could get in no other way. I forwent all splendor, went without adjectives like going without sugar, and Italian paper is wasted on Claude, ought to be used for other books, with other lips and other hearts14. But enough--- I know you understand perfectly, and it's a world of comfort that you do.

Yours Willa