This is ether a day for writing, the early stages of a honeymoon, or fifteen grams of opium. It’s raining, a very pretty rain, not the spasmodic kind that we get in California but a long steady one, the kind they show in the newsreels with the natives sitting on the rooftops with their cattle, wives and chickens.

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(Letter to Irving Brecher, 12/16/1940)

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