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#1599: Willa Cather to Zoë Akins, December 4, 1943

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⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ My dear Zoe1:

You will remember that while you were in New York2 last summer I telephoned you that I was going into the Presbyterian Hospital3 for a few weeks. In reality I was going in to have the celebrated Doctor Whipple4 take out my gall bladder and appendix. The operation was a brilliant success (no drainage tubes or any of those horrid things) but the recovery was very slow and pretty awful. I weighed one hundred and twenty-six pounds when I went into the hospital and I came out weighing a little under one hundred and ten. For most of the month of August and all of September, I was lying in bed, in the apartment5, too ill to move, and the heat was outrageous. To make matters worse, it rained every day. I sweated pounds off, just as English jockeys do when they are in training. I kept on hating food and there was an undercurrent of nausea all the time, until about the first of December. Since then I have been pulling up rapidly. I now weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds, have a good appetite and enjoy food. I rather hope I will gain a little more because I am not strong enough to go shopping and all the dresses that hang in my closets are preposterously too big for me!! Even my shoes are much too big. My hair all came out and I have frightful neuralgia in my head - unless it is tied up in woolen scarves at night.

I am relating these tiresome details because I am sure that you have known for some time that something was the matter with me. You asked me once over the telephone if you had offended me. Of ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ course, my dear Zoe, we have always had different "ideologies" (horrid word!) and as people grow older their beliefs, like their arteries, grow harder--we are less and less able to sympathetically comprehend the other fellow's point of view. But something more than this, something physical which I could not understand, was making me more and more short-tempered and irritable, and unable to bear my own shortcomings and those of my friends. Now that I am pigeon-livered, maybe I will have more patience with the "new poetry" (manufactured by mathematicians and politicians) and with the distorting processes with which the film makers attack the old masterpieces, drag them out of their secluded niches, and use them for their horrid purposes. I [missing]

Here let me insist that when an intelligent man makes a good film (Noel Coward6, for example) I enjoy it as much as anybody. But these cheap hash-overs of really great literature (Anna Karenin7, Notre Dame de Paris8, Wuthering Heights9) etc) show the poverty of the minds behind the camera. Who would steal music if he could write music of his own? Novels of action can be dramatized. Novels of feeling, even if it is only feeling for a city or an historic period, cannot be.

Well, as Mrs. Arliss10 cabled "Happy New Year anyway!"

Affectionately Willa