“Goofy, my darling, hasn’t it been a lovely day? I woke up this morning and then sun was lying like a birth-day parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air: love to Doo-do and the remembered feel of our skins cool against each other in other mornings like a school-mistress. And you ‘phoned and said I had written something that pleased you and so I don’t believe I’ve ever been so heavy with happiness. The moon slips into the mountains like a lost penny and the fields are black and pungent and I want you so near so that I could touch you in the autumn stillness even a little bit like the last echo of summer. The horizon lies over the road to Lausanne and the succulent fields like a guillotine and the moon bleeds over the water and you are not so far away that I can’t smell your hair in the drying breeze. Darling — I love these velvet nights. I’ve never been able to decide whether the night was a bitter enemie or a ‘grand patron’ — or whether I love you most in the eternal classic half-lights where it blends with day or in the full religious fan-fare of mid-night or perhaps in the lux of noon — Anyway, I love you most and you ‘phoned me just because you ‘phoned me to-night — I walked on those telephone wires for two hours after holding your love like a parasol to balance me. My dear — I'm so glad you finished your story — Please let me read it Friday. And I will be very sad if we have to have two rooms. Please. Dear. Are you sort of feeling aimless, surprised, and looking rather reproachful that no melo-drama comes to pass when your work is over — as if you (had) ridden very hard with a message to save your army and found the enemy had decided not to attack — the way you sometimes feel — or are you just a darling little boy with a holiday on his hands in the middle of the week — the way you sometimes are — or are you organizing and dynamic and mending things — the way you sometimes are —
I love — the way you always are.
Dear — dear dear dear dear dear dear...”
Letter to Scott Fitzgerald
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