My rewards or discredit from participation in a magazine issued by your enemies will be bound to be, to a certain extent, somewhat embarrassing, yet, as you recognize, I still feel that I can owe myself that freedom on a clear responsibility. I am growing more and more sick of factions, gossip, jealousies, recriminations, excoriations and the whole literary shee-bang right now. A little more solitude, real solitude, on the part of everyone, would be a good thing, I think. Let us have lunch together soon. I won’t take absolute “vows” before that, for this letter is a very crumb of my feelings. 196: TO GORHAM MUNSON [_Brooklyn?_] _Dec. 8th, ’24_ Dear Gorham: Reflecting on our conversation at lunch today I have come to feel bound to suggest that you take whatever decisions or formalities are necessary to “excommunicate” me from your literary circle. How much further you may wish to isolate me depends entirely on your own personal feelings, but I am not prepared to welcome threats from any quarters that I know of--which are based on assumptions of my literary ambitions in relation to one group, faction, “opportunity,” or another. 1925 197: TO HIS MOTHER [_Brooklyn_] _Jan. 4th, ’25_ Dear Grace and Grandma: I might say that this is the first “day of rest” that I’ve had since I came back,--but fortunately that doesn’t mean that I am all fagged out by any means.[38] I’ve managed to get some regular sleeping hours, have curtailed my liquor rations (since New Year’s eve) and am feeling as well as anyone could ever ask. Just came back from a luscious breakfast (I make a practice of a regular meal on Sunday mornings because I sleep so late and also walk a good distance to the restaurant) and have bought some gay marigolds and narcissi from the funny little florist woman nearby who has a regular case on me, or rather has an amusing way of flattering one. She’s a sight, alright! Bumpy body, pocked face, mussy hair and a voice that simply barks at you, it is so raucous. I can’t be seen passing her place without her glimpsing me, and signaling. When I enter she jumps at me with such phrases as--“Well my handsome Good Looking again! How’s my big boy? Ain’t he a dandy!,” etc., etc., etc. I generally get enough from her to make my room gay on a quarter, and indeed, today, with my Christmas decorations still up and the snow-light coming in from the roofs of the piers below me--it is festive. Allen Tate, Sue [Jenkins] and Brown are coming over for tea this afternoon, so I won’t be the only one to look past the little flying swan still dangling in the window.