Dear Charlotte and Richard: --/--/ The facts are hard, but true, I have not yet succeeded in finding myself a job, and even after trying every sort of position, like selling books in stores during the Christmas rush, ship jobs, etc., etc., and I have just been kept going by the charity of my friends. The nervous strain of it all has about floored me, and I feel as though the skin of my knees were quite worn off from bowing to so many people, being sniffed at (to see whether I had “personality” or not), etc. How I shall love it when, some day, I shall have a little hut built on my place in the country to live in--and get out of all this filthy mess! Even the publication matter of my book of poems has not come through the way I had expected. O’Neill is writing the Foreword, after all, but he took so long to notify Liveright (the publisher) about it that I must now try to place it somewhere else. This may not be so hard, but it probably means that it will not come out until next autumn, and I had so hoped to have it printed before that.... So you see how it’s been! I don’t mean to wail, but it is hard to keep up and going sometimes. --/--/ --/--/ I have an appointment tomorrow with a possible job. I certainly hope to get it, and begin paying back what you were so kind in lending me. _The Dial_ bought my “Wine Menagerie” poem--but insisted (Marianne Moore did it) on changing it around and cutting it up until you would not even recognize it. She even changed the title to “Again.” What it all means now I can’t make out, and I would never have consented to such an outrageous joke if I had not so desperately needed the twenty dollars.--Just one more reason for getting my book published as soon as possible! 221: TO HIS FATHER _Brooklyn, N. Y._ _Dec. 3rd, ’25_