None-the-less, I’ve read considerably--Aeschylus (especially the _Oresteia_) was a revelation of my ideal in the dynamics of metaphor--even through the rather prosy translations[43] one gleans the essential density of image, impact of substance matter so verbally quickened and delivered with such soul-shivering economy that one realizes there is none in the English language to compare him with.--Then Prescott’s _Ferdinand & Isabella_, _Journal of Columbus_, a book on Magellan by Hildebrand (this was rather inexcusable), Melville’s delightful _White Jacket_ as well as a marvelously illustrated book[44] on whaling and whaling ships, published by the Marine Research Society, Salem, Mass.... In the midst of my readings of _Science & the Modern World_, Whitehead,--along comes _Virgin Spain_. I’m about half way through this at present and feel like telegraphing Waldo my immediate uncontrolled and unstinted enthusiasm. As prose it certainly is his climax of excellence--and as a document of the epic one of the most lively testaments ever written. I had been dwelling with a good deal of surprise in a pleasant conviction that Lawrence’s _Plumed Serpent_ was a masterpiece of racial description. It certainly is vividly beautiful, its landscapes, theatrical vistas, etc.--but Waldo’s work is a world of true reality--his ritual is not a mere invention. Only my interest in Maya and Toltec archaeology led me to order Lawrence’s book. It was poor in this--at least regarding the details I had hoped for, but I was rather astonished at the calibre of much of the prose. As Waldo may have mentioned, the finale of _The Bridge_ is written, the other five or six parts are in feverish embryo. They will require at least a year more for completion; however bad this work may be, it ought to be hugely and unforgivably, distinguishedly bad. In a way it’s a test of materials as much as a test of one’s imagination. _Is_ the last statement sentimentally made by Eliot, “This is the way the world ends, This is the way the world ends,-- Not with a bang but a whimper.” is this acceptable or not as the poetic determinism of our age?! I, of course, can say no, to myself, and believe it. But in the face of such a stern conviction of death on the part of the only group of people whose verbal sophistication is likely to take on interest in a style such as mine--what can I expect? However, I know my way by now, regardless. I shall at least continue to grip with the problem without relaxing into the easy acceptance (in the name of “elegance, nostalgia, wit, splenetic splendor”) of death which I see most of my friends doing. O the admired beauty of a casuistical mentality! It is finally content with twelve hours sleep a day and archaeology.