--/--/ If I were only in N.Y. I would see to it that S[ommer]’s work were given its due,--but that time will have to wait. Meanwhile he shows not the slightest inclination to wilt. As I said, his achievements present one gorgeous surprise after another. A mutual friend of ours here recently died, a Nietzschean and thorough appreciator of all the best, who has pursued his lonely way in America since the age of fifteen when he left his family in Norway on account of religious differences. Bill and I were among the pallbearers at this funeral, where there were only a few others present, although all appreciative of what the man was. I can’t go into detail, but the affair was tremendous, especially the finale at the crematorium. It was beautiful, but left me emotionally bankrupt last Sunday, the day following. That funeral was one of the few beautiful things that have happened to me in Cleveland. Now for a brief résumé of American literature. It is, in a way, hopefully significant that Anderson’s _Winesburg_ has been issued by Boni and Liveright in their Modern Library with a very fine introduction by Ernest Boyd which gives much praise to _The L. R._ for having had the acumen to introduce Anderson to the world. --/--/ _The Dial_ for December has a fine article in it on American painting by Rosenfeld, singling out Hartley for extra and very intelligent praise. It also includes a fairly good poem by Malcolm Cowley, a rather disappointing article on Flaubert by Middleton Murry, and an atrocious piece of dull nonsense by Bodenheim. The new _Shadowland_ is [as] far from thrilling as those tepid baths it did offer last summer, and the _Ladies Home Journal_ and the _Atlantic_ are as bouncing as ever. This is all for tonight. We have a houseful of indiscriminate relatives and it has been hard to collect myself for even this potpourri, but I have more to say when I can get to it. I need time (a natural requirement with me for all writing or thought) to sit Buddha-like for a couple of hours every day and let things sift themselves into some semblance of order in my brain. But I haven’t had the opportunity for such operations for weeks, and may never,--until which time I pray you to be contented as you can by such thrusts in haste as this letter. Your figure haunts me like a kind of affectionate caress through all sorts of difficulties. You are always my final and satisfactory “court of appeal,” and it is useless to attempt to tell you how much this means to me. So believe me when I tell you that I love you, and plan and plan for the glorious day when we shall get knees under the table and talk, and talk, and talk. The inefficacy of my letters to you always troubles me. 1922 85: TO SHERWOOD ANDERSON _Cleveland_ _Jan. 10th_