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I've just finished4
"Lorenzo in Taos"5 with great admiration. It's as good
as the Buffalo6 part of "Intimate Memories"7. It's like a big canvas full of
gorgeous color and thrilling people—and motion. It's the constant change in the
personal equation and in the emotional climate that make the book so exciting.
Everything that goes on between the people is unexpected and unforeseen, as things
usually are in life and so seldom are in the pages of a novelist. I don't always
agree with you in your interpretation of your people and their motives, but I always
agree with the way it's done—with your presentation of your own
interpretation, I mean. Everybody in the story is alive and full of behaviour—except
a few colorless people whom you have the good sense to
let alone. Perhaps you're a little hard on Frieda8, a little hard on Brett9—but you've made 'em as you saw 'em and they and all the
rest keep the ball rolling. You've done Tony10
magnificently! I wouldn't have thought anybody could do him so well. It's splendid,
and not over-done. And you've done yourself better than any anywhere except in the early Buffalo volumes. In the Italian part of
the memoirs I always felt that a stream of interesting people went across the page
but that you as a person disappeared. Here you re-appear with a bang! I imagine that
it's because your eye is fixed on Lawrence11
and you do yourself rather incidentally that you succeed so well. It's amazingly
spontaneous and amazingly true. I'm sure it's the best
portrait there ever will be of Lawrence himself. I'm amused at your struggles with
his giggle. Was it a giggle? Wasn't it more like a
snicker? Not snigger, but snicker? To me giggle is always fat and jolly.
I simply love the way you do in Taos12 country and the weather. When I was writing about it in a very formal and severe manner, as befits the eye of a priest and the pen of a stranger, I kept thinking that I would love to see it done intimately, as part and parcel of somebody's personal life—not a background! (about once a week I get a letter from some puppy who tells me he has done a story of sophistocated easterners in a New Mexican background, or some other kind of simper with a New Mexican background.) I wish to God I could have put the Archbishop13 in Kansas14 or Nebraska15—not many sensitive artistic natures have the grit to follow you there. It's a great advantage to work in a part of the country that is distinctly déclassé—it rids you superficial writers and superficial readers. But this is a long departure.
When a country like the Taos country is really a part of your life, and when your
life is a form of living and not a little camera,--well, then it all works up very
stunningly together. Few things have ever given me more joy than the night you all
spent chasing about the alfalfa field. Why Tony's car becomes a positive God of
Vengeance, a frightful threat
threat
threat to the foolishness of all of you, and to a
whole school of thinking that has upset the old balance of things, where personal
desires and emotions were masked under a National
consciousness of or a tribe will, or the particular
false-front of any one social period.
Edith16 is in Boston17 for a week, or she would probably be writing you at the same time. She read Lorenzo through before she left.
I'll be leaving for California18 in a few weeks, to join my mother19. Her condition is about the same. The doctors tell me it may go on five or six years like this. She seems to get pleasure out of being with us, even in such a wretchedly helpless state. I have to stop off in San Francisco20, so I'll probably go over the northern route. But my next long trip will be to Mexico City21. I'm envious that you've beat me to it.
With heartiest congratulations Willa Cather