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The Yale Review3 is the one magazine I do get
regularly; because, as your old Vermonter said, it doesn't come "too reg'elar." I
had read your article4 (excuse new pen) before the
copy you sent me arrived, and I wanted to write you you about it. But what is there to say? What is there to say about
anything that is happening now? There is no spot on the earth's surface that one can
rest one's mind against any more. I knew you had many ties in France5 and I have often wanted to write to you.
But again, what is there to say? Besides, I got a little behind with life. I allowed
the celebrated Doctor Whipple6 to "remove",
no, to take
out, my appendix and gall bladder7 last July. August and September were nasty
months to recover in: horrible heat, and the humidity of Singapore8. Bad news from every quarter of the
world always pouring in. I got so behind in my correspondence, in normal vitality,
in weight (16 pounds) that I thought I could never
catch up again. Slowly one comes to life again—but one wonders why, when most of the
world one loved is being destroyed and so many of the friends one loved have been
destroyed. We wont live to see the beautiful new world they talk about emerge. We see only a
thousand years of glorious endeavour wrecked and wiped
out. Anyhow, I don't want to live in the new world they promise us—it's not to my
taste.
Isn't Churchill9 a great old boy? Isn't England10 a great old land?