Two new pictures just arrived from Minns that I wish you could see. One,--an old man’s head that is as good as a Rembrandt, and at the opposite pole, a young girl’s head that brings Pound’s sonnet lines persistently into my head,--“No, go from me. I have left her lately. I will not spoil my shield with lesser brightness.--” You know how it goes. I intend to send the old man’s head to _The Dial_ for publication, but scarcely hope they will accept it after the mediocrities they have lately staged there. Really,--I flatter myself, you see,--I have more doubts about their accepting a poem I recently wrote and sent them, which I enclose.[13] You see, my present job allows me more time while “at work,” and I may even do more,--for better or worse, according as you feel about it. This is all now until I hear from you and have more to build on. You know there is precious little for me to build on here, and so you must not too much mind if my letters have a predominance of what must seem banality to you. If so, forgive me,--and when you get tired of vainly tugging at your end of the line, let me know, and I’ll take it philosophically. 61: TO GORHAM MUNSON [_Cleveland_] _April 10th_ Dear Gorham: -- -- -- -- For me here--the same old jog-trot except that I have lately run across an artist here whose work seems to carry the most astonishing marks of genius that have passed before my eyes in original form, that is,--I mean present-day work. And I am saying much I think when I say that I prefer Sommer’s work to most of Brzeska and Boardman Robinson. A man of 55 or so--works in a lithograph factory--spent most of his life until the last seven years in the rut of conventional forms--liberated suddenly by sparks from Gauguin, Van Gogh, Picasso and Wyndham Lewis, etc. I have taken it upon myself to send out some of his work for publication, an idea that seems oddly, never to have occurred to him. --/-- I enclose an incipient effort of mine of recent date.[14] 62: TO GORHAM MUNSON [_Cleveland_] _April 20th_ Dear Gorham: Your letter did me good, and has left a good hangover for me for the last few ungenerous days. I left my father’s employ yesterday _for good_--nothing, I think, will ever bring me back. The last insult was too much. I’ve been treated like a dog now for two years,--and only am sorry that it took me so long to find out the simple impossibility of ever doing anything with him or for him. It will take me many months, I fear, to erase from my memory the image of his overbearing head leaning over me like a gargoyle. I think he had got to think I couldn’t live without his aid. At least he was, I am told, furious at my departure. Whatever comes now is much better than the past. I shall learn to be somewhere near free again,--at least free from the hatred that has corroded me into illness.