Gorham, of course, I don’t see at all, nor hear much about. I understand that he regrets his awkwardness in dealing with me as he did, etc. But his change of personality which had long preceded this particular situation at which I took offense, had already changed my feelings about him considerably, and I strangely enough don’t miss seeing him half as much as I had once thought I would under such circumstances. Of course, I’m really his friend, as I know he is mine, but it may do us good to separate a little while. Many of his ways and opinions had begun to bore me a great deal, and that feeling may have been mutual, so far as I know. --/--/ 202: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] _3/28/25_ Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ I have also been in a state of rush regarding the completion of a few remaining lines and corrections on poems to be included in my book, which the printer is beginning to set in type. This little man, Jacobs, by name, certainly is devoted to the cause of literature in going ahead as he is--paying for the cost of the paper and binding as well as dedicating his time and strength--free of charge--to the details of typography, setting, etc. For he is well enough convinced that he will on no account reap any more remuneration from the book than I will. Poetry of my kind is not popular enough nowadays, you know, to sell. Nevertheless, I am somewhat stimulated by the fact of the book being actually now in progress. Getting that wad of my past work into permanent collection and out of the way, so to speak, is an hygienic benefit. Then--I shall feel myself all ready to begin the honest-to-goodness efforts on my long _Bridge_ poem. --/--/ 203: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK _Brooklyn_ _April 9, ’25_ Dear Charlotte and Ricardo: --/--/ It will be amusing to ask Sam [Loveman] about this person when I next see him. We generally have Sunday morning breakfasts together in a Spanish restaurant nearby and talk over our troubles as well as pleasant reminiscences. As you picture matters, the usual bacchanale of life around here and among my friends still occupies me a good deal. Some of it is sweet and clarifying--but as time goes on I tire of certain repetitions that occur in it and seem to be developing certain reactionary tendencies toward solitude and more austere examinations of myself. Above all, with the regular amount of highly detailed work I have to do every day at the office,--the “grind” in other words, and all the tempting other activities outside my real self, I feel worn out most of the time and so distracted that I lack the reflection and self-collection necessary to do the work, the _real_ work that ultimately concerns me most. Still, considering the slight time which I have for any real freedom I think I have done a good bit of work during the last two years. But I cannot profess to any real ability in measuring it. One struggles along blindly most of the time. --/--/