Eugene O’Neill wrote me that he was enthusiastic about some recent things I had sent him, and I have enough enthusiasm from other astute and discriminating people in America to make me feel that my writings are justified. Publishers shy at it, of course, because they know it won’t make them money. Meanwhile the same flood of mediocrities in verse continues to be printed, bound and sold year after year. Your story of the Fourth sounded very jolly indeed. Nothing could beat the hilarity of this place--with about an omnibus-full of people here from New York and a case of gin, to say nothing of jugs of marvellous hard cider from a neighboring farm. You should have seen the dances I did--one all painted up like an African cannibal. My makeup was lurid enough. A small keg on my head and a pair of cerise drawers on my legs! We went swimming at midnight, climbed trees, played blind man’s buff, rode in wheel-barrows and gratified every caprice for three days until everyone was good an’ tired out. The guests are still recovering, I understand, in their separate abodes in the city. It certainly is infinitely pleasanter drinking and celebrating on a wide acreage, like this farm, than in the tumult and commotion of the city. Aside from this one blowout I have not had a drop since I have been here--and have not felt like drinking, either. The desire for booze in the city comes from frayed nerves and repressions of the office, I’m sure. --/--/ 211: TO WALDO FRANK _Patterson, New York_ _Friday_ Dear Waldo: I’m awfully sorry about the Jimenez translations: they are locked in my trunk at Columbia Heights in my letter file. But I’m going back to New York about a week from tomorrow and I’ll be glad to copy them--and either send them on to you--or directly to _The New Republic_, as you may direct. That would be--at most--only a few days later than they would arrive had I sent them along with this letter. I don’t know what you are accenting in your thesis on the poet, but I think [the] short poem on the Virgin better than the one called “The Three.” I think you sent me only these two. Along with your letter today comes the news from my mother that transactions are about completed for the sale of our home in Cleveland. If this really eventuates I may be called upon to help them move--which will defer my plans for sea roving at least until after September. However, I may decide to evade the moving: I can’t at present see my way to make any definite plans without risking some kind of unpleasant entanglement. I wish that “wile” and “guile” were easier instruments for my imagination to use! There is always some other immediate duty or requirement for me to perform than creation. I’ve had only above five hours at the writing table since I came out here, and now it’s about time to look for a postage stamp--I mean the wherewithal for it--to post this letter! Of course I’ve had a good time, find I enjoy painting house, gardening, etc. BUT----.