premise: A letter to his editor at Grove  I cant possibly go on as a responsible prose artist and also as a believer in the impulses of my own heart and in the beauty of pure spontaneous language if I let editors take my sentences, which are my phrases that I separate by dashes when I 'draw a breath,' each of which pours out to the tune of the whole story its own rhythmic yawp of expostulation, and riddle them with commas, cut them in half, in threes, in fours, ruining the swing ...
hypothesis: Editors ruin my work completely, rendering it pointless.