Dear Stieglitz: The imagination dwells on frangible boughs! For ten days now I’ve been travelling through the middle west on _business_ for the company. Investigating certain sales facts and figures among hardware and paint dealers on “Barrelled Sunlight,” a kind of white paint! My mind is like dough and _The Bridge_ is far away. Your card was a warm signal to me on the morning of my joyful return. I never saw the Venus in her sphere before--looking on the world with the wind from Delphos in her hair! How do you do it? You have the distinction of being classic and realistic at once. That, of course, is what _real_ classicism means. You don’t know how much I think about my essay on you and your work! Please don’t think me faithless. I fly in a rage when I think of the sacrifices I pay just to feed myself in the hope of time--a rightful heritage of all of us--and it takes time to say and think out the things I feel in your photographs. I’ll try and write you more soon, but don’t misunderstand any silences from me. _I am your brother always_-- 151: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] _Aug 11 ’23_ Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ I came near a collapse near the middle of the week--the trip, hot weather, etc., certainly tested me and worries kept me from much sleep--as things are. N.Y. is bad in the summer anyway--takes all the vitality you have to give and gives you back nothing to build with or repair. I hope things are going better now. I’ll write maybe during next week--but worry about correspondence is a burden sometimes when I have so much new work to think about. You’ll understand me, I hope, in any case. I enjoyed your letter, Grandma, and it wasn’t too long. You write extraordinarily well! 152: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK [_New York City_] _Sunday, Aug. 19th_