gpl

February twenty-sixth, 1929.

Father darling. I hardly know how to begin this letter to you. Your last two have been so sweet and considerate, and my ideas and proposal may surprise you. I do not want you to have misgivings, or be suspicious, but it is time I made a definite decision as to what I am to do. And it is hard for me to write. I know that for my temporary happiness be I am best off in Europe, but in the long run it is going to most to my advantage to have my independence, a permanent source of income, a permanent occupation. There is no denying that this has been the most important year of my life and that I am going to hate to give up all that has contributed to it, pain and pleasure alike, but I feel I must. I shall come home, but not at once. I think you will agree that it is best for me to come when I know exactly what I am going to do, rather than hanging around waiting and trying, getting on everyone's nerves. I have thought of many things, all familiar to you. I have tried to see the possibility of starting something in New York, and for the reasons we thought such an attempt inadvisable a year and a half ago have been forced to give it up. And the situation narrows. And I wonder if Helen is getting tired of the shop. I know that her stock must be, for the most part, worthless. Will you look into the matter. I want you to think it over, think of it as something I know how to do, take a certain amount of pleasure in doing. I do not pretend that it will not be hard; it may be even harder than it was before, but I think I have more strength and will to put into it than I had. And I have one other project which I would start as a side line and which might develop into a very profitable business in itself. That is the wholesale Christmas card business. I know there is money to be made there; I think I could make it. And there is the advantage of its requiring very little capital. I feel that if I do not soon make a

success of something I shall go to the dogs. On the whole the writing experiment has not
been a success. I have not as yet produced a single thing I would be willing to show. And
the reasons are several. I have not the heart this morning to try to explain, perhaps
I do not know why I have not had the strength and the desire to make up in labour what
I lack in talent. And, as time passes and I prove myself less and less worthy of the in-
dulgence I meet with, I want to run away and never be seen again. There is some damnable
thing within me which keeps me suspended between the world I want, the world of those I
love, and that of the bums who over-run this or any other city. But I can't, I can't, write
about that. If it distresses you, at times it nearly drives me mad. At times I get into
such a frenzy of wanting to want that I delude myself into thinking I really do. I want
to want things, to be things, to do things. But what? I do not know. And it has got to
end by my doing something perfectly commonplace, perhaps doing it well, because I do not
know what I want to do. I am ambitious, but only once have I had a sustained sense of
reality, about only one thing. My emotion is real; my life is not.

gpl