others, and I leave myself in your hands. -- -- -- -- 10: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] _Sept. 28, ’17_ My dear sweet Mother: I have just read your letter and find it hard to express my rage and disgust at what you say concerning C. A. Crane’s conduct. “Forget him,” is all I can say. He is too low for consideration. I am only quietly waiting,--stifling my feelings in the realization that I might as well get as much money as possible out of him. Why be scrupulous in one’s dealings with unscrupulous people, anyway? --/--/ Maxwell Bodenheim called the other evening, complimented my poetry excessively, and has taken several pieces to the editor of _The Seven Arts_, a personal friend of his. Bodenheim is at the top of American poetry today, and he says that after four years of absolute obscurity, he [is] succeeding in getting publication only through the adverse channels of flattery, friendships and “pull.” It is all a strange business. Editors are generally disappointed writers who stifle any genius or originality as soon as it is found. They seldom even trouble to read over the manuscript of a “new man.” Bodenheim is a first-class critic though, and I am proud to have his admiration and encouragement. As soon as _Others_ begins again this winter, he says I shall have an organ for all of my melodies, as he is one of the editors. Success seems imminent now more than ever. I am very encouraged, practically, at least. --/--/ 11: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] [_October 1, 1917_] My dear Mother: --/--/ O if you knew how much I am learning! The realization of true freedom is slowly coming to me, and with it a sense of poise which is of inestimable value. My life, however it shall continue, shall have expression and form. Believe me when I tell you that I am fearless, that I am determined on a valorous future and something of a realization of life. The smallness of hitherto large things, and the largeness of hitherto small things is dawning. I am beginning to see the hope of standing entirely alone and to fathom Ibsen’s statement that translated is, “The strongest man in the world is he who stands entirely alone.” --/--/ 12: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] [_October 3, 1917_] My own dear Mother: There is not much to tell you except that I am about to begin a novel. The plot is already thick in my head and tonight the first chapter will be written off, at least in rough draft. It is a story whose setting is to be Havana and the Isle of Pines. Walter Wilcox is to be the hero, and the heroine a N. Y. society maiden who is attending the races in Havana. More of this will doubtless bore you, now at least, so enough![4] Grandma writes that you are succeeding beautifully. As soon as you found some active interests I knew you would improve in outlook and distinguish between a disgusting personality and the world in general.