Sept. 10, 1951

3310 Race St.
Philadelphia 4,
Pa.

Dear Mrs. Lawrence:

Could I have your permission, please, to quote from
Lawrence? -- from the books of his published by Viking and by
Knopf and by other publishers? -- and from _Not I, But The Wind_?
I'm writing a novel whose hero is writing a book about Lawrence,
so I want to quote him about 200 times. I am very pro Lawrence,
as you may remember from meeting me.

Way back in 1934, my brother and I (we were about 18
and 20) showed up at your ranch on foot and you put us up for the
night. You gave us an autographed private edition of _Not I_ (one
of my proudest possessions ever since). A few years later, my wife
and I had tea with you in Los Angeles. I believe you were living
in Coldwater Canyon. The Brett was there.

You've met so many people, though, that I wouldn't be
hurt at all if you've forgotten me completely. I can't think of
anything about me which might have stuck in your mind.

Now I'm studying at the University of Pennsylvania
for my Ph. D., to teach American or English Literature. And next
year I'll doing a thesis on Lawrence, after I've finished my novel.
If the novel is successful, it may do more to popularize Lawrence
than any book so far (merely because novels sell better than
non-fiction).

I've had a couple of visits with Edward McDonald. He's
the head of the English Department at Deexel Institute, which is
only a few blocks from me. I cannot understand how a man so fond
of Lawrence can have spent his life in such an ugly office in
such an ugly building in such an ugly district. I'd better tell
you one of "secrets": he has the original manuscript of _Women In Love_ and he says "nobody knows where it is." Is he
exaggerating? I feel you have a right to know. McDonald and his
wife (liked them both) told me that Lawrence is the most alive
man they ever met, and that you are the most alive woman. (That's
what I've always said of you myself.)

You might also be interested in hearing about Jaime
D'Angula. He's been in and out of several insane asylums. When
I knew him (about 1942), he was a living alone on a mountain-
top way down in Robinson Jeffers' country, miles from any-
body. Performing unmentionable acts upon animals and writing
a novel about his bi-sexuality called _The Androgyne_. "I'm
cuckoo," he told me. "I'm loony." Pathetic and terrible. For
he's somehow likeable, in spite of everything.

Aren't you thrilled by the growing interest in
Lawrence? The violently pro and con phase has passed; balanced,
sane books about him are beginning to appear. Aldington's
and Moore's, for example. I used to see that ass, that un-
speakable ass, Tindall -- William York Tindall -- around Columbia
University. He looks just like him book. Oozing with self-
satisfaction. A face that fairly cries out for a fist. You
couldn't loathe him more than I do.

Now that evil is all around us -- now that the deathli-
ness which Lawrence felt so fully years and years ago is visible
to everybody -- he is beginning to come into his own. For he
represents life against death. He had more fresh, new life in
him than any other modern English or American writer.