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This foreword3 seems4 to me quite all right.
I've been hanging on5 here because I had no energy to make a change. Next week I'll be leaving for either Jaffrey6 or New York7, and I hope to start West in November. My brother Douglass8, sister Elsie9 and I will all be in Red Cloud10 for Christmas, with a bunch of the grandchildren, I hope.
What you say about Ruth Suckow11 interests me. I didn't like her early things at all, and I've not read anything of hers for five or six. To be frank, my dear, about her early things there was a creepy, cold, determined nastiness that made my gorge rise. I don't mind the coarseness that comes from over-heat, young energy. But I do hate this other kind like the devil. I saw her once at the Knopf office, and I thought she looked like that! A kind of in-growing face? However, I'm often prejudiced. I'll read her new book12 at your suggestion.
Goodbye, my dear. Your letter of three weeks ago was such a comfort. These have been strange weeks of soft fogs without and memories within. I've never felt so purposeless and un-anchored before. The many kind letters from kind and scholarly priests have really been a solace–they bring an air of noble fortitude with them. They would call it faith, but even so it is fortitude all the same. (And sometimes poetry, of a restrained kind.)Lovingly Willa