93 Sunset Trail,
Berkeley, California,

January 12, 1935

Dear Red,

I'm enclosing several recent productions of mine for your
delectation, all of which are being considered by various editors.
I see by your announcements that THE SOUTHERN REVIEW is well filled
for some issues to come, so forbore to submit the enclosed with
"The Review" in mind, although you know you are welcome to anything
of mine that meets your approval. I hope to have a long poem to
submit in your poetry contest, which is certainly a great thing.

I like best in the last two issues of THE SOUTHERN REVIEW,
the poetry and prose of Allen Tate. Somehow this is always an
attention-capturing, mind-stirring, quality about Tate's work, that
completely lifts it out of this humdrum world. Never have I read
a dull line by Tate. I also like extremely, the critical essay by
John Crowe Ransom, entitled "Autumn of Poetry". The liveliness of it,
and the justice of the critical strictures, must strike any reader.
I did not like his "Tense of Poetry" nearly as well, and I simply
don't believe that the poet turns more to the past than the present
or future; what the poet turns to is eternity. Howard Baker's "Wallace
Stevens and Other Poets" seems like an honest, valuable piece of work
to me, except in such places as where he rather painfully labors the
obvious as in his remarks upon Steven's line, "There are no bears
among the roses". As for his "Note on Van Doren's Poetry", it seems
a little bit too commendatory, but then I dislike Van Doren's poetry
extremely, including that which appears in THE SOUTHERN REVIEW.

Your article, "Some Recent Novels", interested me extremely, especially
your remarks about modern authors having to go out and get something to
write about. And what a fruitful and stimulating remark this is, "Mr.
Davis is one of the few novelists who do not seem to regard writing
as simply a tedious adjunct to the business of constructing a novel".
Your article contains the best constructive literary criticism that
has yet appeared in THE SOUTHERN REVIEW. As descriptive literary
criticism, I like F. Cudworth Flint's article "Five Poets" very much,
and Cleanth Brook's articles have seemed interesting in the same respect.
As destructive criticism, and properly so, John Donald Wade's "Sweet
Are The Uses of Degeneracy" gladded my heart. I hate Caldwell's stuff.
"Art and the Revolutionary Attitude" by Herbert Read, and Kenneth
Burke's, "Antony in Behalf of the Play" bored me stiff. Tate's remarkable
article on Bishop, opened my eyes to what is best in that author's
poetry. I disagree with Tate on this point, in regard to the direction
modern poetry is taking, that it is along with all other arts tending
toward the condition of music", becoming a geometrical abstraction
and destroying itself. Such a remark may be true of Wallace Stevens,
and his school, but his poetry, at least, is a fine thing.

As to the stories in the last two issues, I like "Memento", "A Morning's Favor", "Cap'm John" and "Let Nothing You Dismay".

"The Old Order" by Katherine Porter, bored me, although I realize that the writing is distinguished. "Two Lives" seemed melodramatic, and weak at the same time. At least it exhausted my patience to the extent that I was weak when I finished reading it.

"The Wish Book" seemed rather coarse, unfelt and pseudo Dos Passoish, brought to the country. "The Washerwoman's Day" seemed sloppy and drab. How real, glowing with the sun and life is Caroline Gordon's story. But then one doesn't find a Caroline Gordon often, and I guess you must have a hell of a time finding good stories for "The Review". My suggestion is to publish more of your own, Tate's, Winter's (he writes them occasionally), Baker's, Dannenbaum's, and Connolly's. This is gratuitous advice and undoubtedly you have the right to be offended by it, but I can't refrain, offering it, although at the same time I may be entirely wrong about the claims to literary fame and intelligent attention of Milburn, Simpson, Wilhelm, et al.

I've said that I disliked Van Doren's poetry, and it seems to me in addition to be imitative. "Old Landscape" seems like weak Robert Frost, especially the opening. "The Last Look" reminds me of Tate's "The Wolves", without the real terror freezing the blood of Tate's poem. Bodon'toknowowhichchoisothefunheroparodyoofordsworthyohebeso GavwohoboohumptydumptybesoongonovanoDorenosoooogoo gate" or VanoDorenbooNeighboroGawhogo "Neighbor Girl" reminds me both of diluted Wordsworth and of Mark Twain's comic poem on Stephen Dowling Batts. Compare...

Van Doren:

"And has he lived, and has it gone
Forgetful well with him.
And have you found another face,
And is my own so dim—"

"I

Twain:

"And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die,
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry.."

Young Stephen died of "measles drear with spots".

Of Bishop's poetry I liked best those lines, in *THE SOUTHERN REVIEW* and elsewhere, pointed out by Tate. What sure and excellent Taste Tate has, he's surely the best connoisseur of poetry I know of. I too thought, before I read Tate's article, that Bishop's line "Long as the history of the Jews" was out of place in the poem in which it appeared and it delighted me to find Tate resolutely stating the same objection.

I consider

Tate's poem the best thing that has yet appeared in *THE SOUTHERN REVIEW*. If Pope should come back to life one of the very few modern poets he would *not* include in his *Unciad* would be Allen Tate. These are my favorite modern poets: Tate, Warren, Housman, Eliot, Valery, Frost,

Of the political, sociological, articles, I was interested most by Norman Thomas' remarks on *THE NEW DEAL*, Hilaire Belloc's, MODERN MAN, and Will W. Alexander's "Rural Resettlement" which I read with great interest. Of the historical treatises I like Donald Davidson's fine piece "American Heroes" the best. I'm looking forward with eagerness to the appearance of the book of which it is a part. I liked Lytle's "R. E. Lee" and Owsley's "A Confederate Diary" very much. Jarrel's survey of ten novels, I thought extremely lively, pertinent and just. In fact his article and Ransom's "Autumn of Poetry" are two of the most *entertaining* pieces of literary criticism I've ever read.

In short THE SOUTHERN REVIEW is a thoroughly interesting and admirable publication and the only one to which I would dream of subscribing. You certainly have done it, Red, old boy, and I only hope editorship is not draining your time to the extent that it is interfering with your own fine creative work. Remember you are among the first of the modern poets who don't bore me and that is quite an achievement.

I've seen our friend Ray, off and on, and he appears to be getting along all right. I understand he sold a poem to THE VIRGINIA QUARTERLY, which was good news. I'm glad you're going to bring out his story "Silence". Ray and I are competing for the Phelan scholarship. They want a verse narrative or a novel and I'm going to submit a plan for a novel and the first chapter of the same. I'm working on it now and will have it ready to send in by February 15, when I must submit my application. Unless you have already promised to back Ray's application I should be very grateful to you, if you'd permit me to use your name as one of my references, or better still if you'd write a letter of recommendation and send it either to me or THE JAMES D. PHELAN AWARDS in LITERATURE AND ART, 658 Phelan Building, San Francisco, Calif. The Phelan scholarship Ray and I are competing for is not the one formerly held by Howard Baker and now by John Connolly, but one offered to the public at large. The Scholarship held by John Connolly is restricted to University students. I don't know what chance I stand of winning the scholarship, with that bastard Robin Lampson, author of that bastardly book "Laughter Out Of The Ground" in the field against me, to say nothing of good, old Ray, a boy of no small talents. Although I'm not supposed to know, I hear the judges are to be Ben Lehman, and Kathleen Norris! Well I might as well try. We can use the money and life is not so wealthy now.

The novel I'm working on will be more or less autobiographical, will open in Butte City, where the principal character, Jimmy Tucker, is graduating from grammar school, will follow him to Sacramento where he goes to high school, thence to Berkeley where he goes to College, thence to San Francisco where he spends two disastrous years working in business offices, thence back to Butte City and a job with the proprietor of the General Store, which he likes and which he is successful at. Of course he marries a local girl and settles down in Butte City. I hope to write a quiet, humorous story, in which

Things are going rather impecuniously with us, otherwise all right. I see Howard, once in a while. University work and his writing keep him pretty much at home though. He's a fine chap. So is John Connolly. He's certainly doing beautiful work, and the thing he's working on now, is very fine. I saw part of it, and was deeply impressed. It is longer than MEMENTO, which is also, I think you'll agree with me, an excellent piece of work. My good friend Howard O' Hagen is back, and is writing some excellent stories.

My mother came down for the Christmas holidays, and a visit, and is staying with Barbara in San Francisco. She wished me to remember her to you. She is a loyal admirer of yours. Albert got back from his round the world trip, (he works for the Dollar Lines), this fall, and immediately left on another. He says that warlike activities in the Mediterranean and the Suez are greatly exaggerated as to scope and intensity, by the newspapers. The American seaman isn't greatly impressed by bluff, maybe not even by guns.

Well this is a hell of a long letter. All I wanted to say in the first place was I wish you well and remain,

Affectionately yours,

THE SOUTHERN REVIEW

PUBLISHED QUARTERLY
BY LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY

Baton Rouge

May 16, 1935.

Mr. Lincoln Fitzell,
324 Panoramic Way,
Berkeley, California.

Dear Fitz:

I have been greatly distressed
by the news of your situation and hope that
you will be out of the hospital long before
the time the doctors now say. I should have
written earlier, but I have scarcely had a
moment to call my own in the last few weeks.

From the group of poems we
are keeping two: "Prayer for Mercy" and "To
Sleep", which in all probability we shall use
in the first issue. Or at least we shall use
one of them. Do you mind if we change the
exclamation "O" in the first line of the
second stanza to "Or"? Or is that too pre-
sumptuous?

Thank you for your good wishes
for the SOUTHERN REVIEW. We are having very
good luck with contributions, but I have some
hope that the first issue will get very favorable
attention.

I shall arrive at San Francisco
just before the middle of August. Try to be
completely well by then.

As ever,

September 19, 1935

Dear Red,

Nothing much has happened since you left. It was fine to see
you both. Jeanie is knitting you a purse which will be sent when
finished. You certainly made a hit with her, which is only to be
expected. I hope you had a pleasant trip back. We, all three, miss
you.

I was shocked to hear of the death of Huey Long. It is
hard for me to understand why the good guys are so often assassinated,
or failing that persecuted. I hope this does not darken the prospects
of the university, or work you any harm. I've been rather worried
about that side of it. Let me know how things are going.

I'm enclosing a revised version of "Dutch Cut", in which I
followed your criticism finding it "juste" in every respect. In-
deed the piece seems tremendously improved to my mind. You're the
best creative critic I know of, Red, besides being a strong, powerful
moving writer and poet. Should the story need further re-working
I'd be grateful to hear about it.

Might I ask you to stick the story in the enclosed envelope addressed
to THE VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW, in case it is not found suitable
for THE SOUTHERN REVIEW. I wanted you to have first cracks at it,
(and indeed at everything I write if you want things to be that way),
ALTHOUGH I CANDIDLY乎 I'd rather expectly duet to talk DUTCH CUT, and I'd be afraid
I'd not whatly duet, afraid I'd be afraid I had to talk, but I'd be afraid I'd
it! I won't be embarrassed at rejections if you won't, you know what
I'm trying to say, old boy.

93 Sunset Trail,
Berkeley, California,
August 3, 1936

The Editors of
THE SOUTHERN REVIEW
The Louisiana State University
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Sirs,

I'm enclosing a poem of mine entitled "Strand Song", with
the hope that it is not too late to include it in the group of
mine "Vane And Leaf" which I entered in THE SOUTHERN REVIEW
poetry competition. "Strand Song" should follow "Song Under
Night" in the group, in case it is found possible to include it
in the group. In case the poem comes too late to be included in
group, or is not otherwise accepted by THE SOUTHERN REVIEW, I
should appreciate it if you would return it to me in the enclosed
envelope.

August 7, 1936

Cleanth Brooks, Jr., Managing Editor

THE SOUTHERN REVIEW

Dear Mr. Brooks,

I understand that you want me to submit more poems in THE SOUTHERN REVIEW poetry competition. I enclose several pieces including four poems under the general title "Songs Of Earth And Mind", which work of mine has already appeared in England, but not yet in America. It occurs to me that it may not be against the policy of the contest or of THE SOUTHERN REVIEW to consider work published abroad, particularly when, as in this case, I was not paid one cent by Mr. Orage for my work.

1. See THE NEW ENGLISH WEEKLY for 9-1-32, 5-18-33, 9-7-33, 11-2-33

November 16, 1936

Cleanth Brooks, Managing Editor
THE SOUTHERN REVIEW

Dear Mr. Brooks,

Four months ago I submitted a number of poems
in THE SOUTHERN REVIEW poetry contest. As I have not heard
from you concerning this work, I've been wondering if it was
returned to THE SOUTHERN REVIEW by the judges, and if so
whether you have reached a decision concerning keeping any of
it for your magazine or returning it to me. I'm enclosing
copies of this work in case it was not returned to you by the
judges, and should appreciate hearing from you concerning
this matter at an early date.

With best wishes to you and to THE SOUTHERN
REVIEW, I am,

STORY

THE ONLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED SOLELY TO THE SHORT STORY

Published monthly at 432 Fourth Ave New York

TELEPHONE MURRAY HILL 4-7530

Editors
WHIT BURNETT
MARTHA FOLEY

Associate
BERNARDINE KIELTY

January 22, 1937.

Dear Mr. Fitzell:-

I am sorry there should have been
a delay in letting you know about your
manuscripts which Robert Penn Warren was
kind enough to recommend to us. Two of
these stories, "A Dutch Cut" and "Man in
a Loud-Checked Suit," we had seen before
and discussed quite seriously at the time.
Both have a nice quality. "Injun Medicine"
is a little bit like many other stories
of adult situations seen through a child's
eyes. And, therefore, it is too close
to a number of stories we have published.

I want to make clear that the
delay in regard to these manuscripts is
entirely my own responsibility and that I
owe not only you but Mr. Warren an apology.
We have been so completely swamped with
book and short story manuscripts that it
sometimes takes us a long time - much too
long from the author's standpoint - to dig
ourselves out from under.

MF/ts

93 Sunset Trail,
Berkeley, California,
February 8, 1937

Dear Red,

I'm enclosing a letter I received from Martha Foley of "Story" not long ago. Though my stuff came back I was encouraged by the note and thank you, old boy, from my heart for recommending the pieces. I had sent a couple of things to "Story" previously- not realizing that you intended doing the same. I thought that "Injun Medicine" was the only prose of mine being seriously considered by THE SOUTHERN REVIEW. I'm sorry about the confusion.

I now have an agent for my stories, H. W. Dugan of Black Star. When my poem, "A Village Dial" came out in the last "Caravan", Black Star wrote me through the publishers, W. W. Norton, asking for things to market. Not having had any success with the stuff myself, I thought it might be a good idea to have Mr. Dugan take a fling at it. He seems halfway hopeful about placing some of my prose eventually (that is according to his last letter), but thinks I should sharpen characterization and work on plot. Maybe he's right. At any rate I'm really going to "hit the line" as hard as possible the next time I take a crack at fiction. Mr. Dugan now has all my prose including my most recent effort, entitled "The Last Word", which I lately revised. As to my poetry, I'm sending that out myself.

I wonder how you and Ginina have been these many days? I hope that terrific flood hasn't touched you or yours in any way. California has been wet and cold too, but to-day is sunny for a change, thank God.

We are well. Edith has been getting in some good tennis, whenever weather has permitted, and Jeanie is flourishing and enjoying school life. I have been working away at both prose and verse. I enclose a recent poem entitled "Night Piece". Howard Baker thought it excellent, Ray Dannenbaum said he didn't like it. I sent it to "The Saturday Review" but haven't heard yet.

I see Howard once in a while. He's working very hard in preparation for his doctor's examination. He certainly is a thoroughly good fellow as well as a first rate literary artist. I like his "Ode To The Sea", and the other SOUTHERN REVIEW poems very much. John Connolly is also doing excellent work. I've recently seen an excerpt from a fine short story of his, which I believe is entitled "The Wild Dogs". I saw Ray about a month ago, just as they were about to move. I believe Ray is temporarily residing at his mother-in-law's. Ray has been having some success selling his photographs to the magazines. A group of them- picturing highlights of the recent shipping strike- appeared in "The Midweek Pictorial."

My friends, Howard O' Hagan and Margaret Peterson, recently got married. They are salt of the earth. Edith and I are very fond of both, Howard has done some excellent short stories and is now working on an extremely interesting and well written novel. We also see Harvey Fergusson occasionally. He's full of real humor and kindliness.

How I should like to see you, Red.. it's been a long time. I thought your article on Jeffers was excellent. You made a valuable observation when you wrote that Jeffers ought to do something new once in a while. You're right, Red.. a writer should keep on developing.

I recently acquired a copy of Housman's, "More Poems".
There are some beautiful and touching pieces in the volume. I
disliked R. P. Blackmur's strictures on the poet. Housman
certainly doesn't seem to me, " a desperately solemn purveyor of
a single adolescent emotion." Blackmur's criticism appears to
have become mechanical, simple-minded and oversure of late.

Believe me it was nothing short of glory, fame and sudden
elevation to Parnassian heights to have appeared in your ex-
cellent textbook. It's a thoroughly readable compilation and
in most cases the critical notes are stimulating and refreshing.

I liked your poem, "Athenian Death" very much, and consider
it a moving and well modelled piece. You write a rich strong
prose too, Red, and I'm always refreshed and stimulated by it,
as I have been by your company. Don't overwork, old boy, and
keep well. Please give our best to Cinina.

Love,

Fieley

It would have meant you're forwarding the stuff to the prize contest, etc. I mention all this so you will not blame me for the confusion regarding "Contemporary" and "A Village Dial" although you know I'm always honored to have my work considered by the Review and hold it to be the best literary magazine in the country. As to the poem "Summit Bloom" which you have selected, I think I've changed the title of it. That is I'm not sure the poem I now call "Summit Bloom" is the one you have. I'm pretty sure I know which is the piece you have selected, and that it is among my unpublished work, but would you mind sending me the first two or the last two lines so I can make sure. I'm sorry about this confusion but I sometimes change the title of a poem when a better one occurs to me and don't always record the change unfortunately. Ah for a neat office mind, but you and I were not born to be filed away, Red.

It will be a pleasure to look up your friend Pier Pasenetti, I could do with a few more interesting, staunch friends. I hear from several sources that Mr. Pasanetti is a man of intelligence and will. It will be refreshing to meet someone who believes that more can be done to remedy man's sorry lot through power than through vacuous idealism or semi-religious focus-pocus. As for myself, I think I'm a distributist at heart. One thing I know for sure is that I can't stand the mechanical moneybugs who now hold most of the purse strings and power threads.

I guess you know that Ray has gone to Los Angeles. I miss him a good deal. We see Howard Baker rather often, as well as John Connelly and Clayton Stafford. I saw Lui only last week. He's well and making money in his business. He's as kind, affable and enthusiastic as ever. I'll certainly, as you say, give him your best.

Thanks for the tip about where to send my volume of verse.
I tried the Yale Press some time ago, two years ago to be exact, but
unfortunately Davidson didn't appear to consider me a younger poet.
At least that's the excuse he gave in returning the manuscript. I keep
sending it out however and have good hope of landing it with a publisher
sooner or later.

Your plan of taking the summer off for writing sounds very wise.
Let students, writers' conference people and magazine contributors
cavort under their own power for a while. You've got a lot to say
and your work has tang, strength and humanity. What is more it is
manly and there is much too little of non-effeminate literature being
written in our day.

Our best to you and Cinina,

With all affection,

beginning next Fall. Howard still has his dissertation to write before he gets his Ph. D., and I guess intends to do it this summer. He plans to stay at Harvard a couple of years or so, I believe, or perhaps only one year, and then return here. His going will leave a terrible gap here, though the Harvard interim may be more or less valuable experience, in spite of it being a God-damnable shame that Howard has to teach at all, or you, either, for that matter. Good writers should be left free to engage in their art whenever the spirit moves, and that at least is one thing "the present administration" has overlooked. Howard says that a good many writers and young men engaged in literary works of various kinds have held Harvard jobs such as the one he's accepted, and that his instructorship is more or less in the nature of a fellowship to encourage and sustain creative writing, so he won't be hounded to do a lot of time-eating research. In fact he told me he got the place through Hillyer who was impressed by his novels and poems.

I don't know what Ray is doing down in Los Angeles. He told me that he was going to do what he always wanted to do down there but wasn't discussing it till it proved successful. Julie said he was writing a story when I called up some time ago, that is writing it down there, she being at her mother's home on Clay street. Ray and Julie were pretty badly plagued by a lot of those crucifying Telegraph Hill bastards, pseudo artists and what not. I guess Ray got pretty fed up with San Francisco and "The bohemian existence" before he pulled out of it. Undoubtedly we shall both be hearing from him before long. I'm very glad you accepted his sailor poem..

I just now called up Julie again, at her mother's, to settle my worries concerning them and get the latest. She says Ray might come up the first part of next week, and that we'll all get together. Poor Julie doesn't enjoy being separated from her husband. The damned world grows cruel at times, and finances shaky.

for more stories, that a contract would be unnecessary, that they hoped
to place my work soon and that editors were getting interested. It would
be a strange thing if my stories should appear in translation before
they appeared in English. Your kind words about my stories have
greatly encouraged me Red, old boy, and some day I shall have a
book-full as I keep working away at them between poems. My agents
are the Black Star publishing people, Ernest Mayer being head of the
concern. They are reliable if a little bit too high pressure, and
they handle the work of such widely read men as Emil Ludwig, the
popular biographer, Paul Claudel, etc.

I am now engaged in starting a poem which I hope will turn
out to be longer than anything so far.

Our best to you and Cinina, Red, old boy.

Love,

P. S. I have telephoned to Pier Pasinetti twice, but he was out both
times. The next time I'll leave a message that I called instead of
just trying to catch him when he's in.

P. P. S. If you decide to publish "Summit Bloom" (or "Cliff Song"
as I'd prefer to have it called), instead of "Hymn To Action", would
you mind sending me a copy of the piece as I did not keep one after
making the revision. I'm under the impression, too, that "Sierra
Song" grew out of the discarded stanzas of "Summit Bloom" and that
thus there might be an unfortunate similarity between the poems.
Forgive this horrid confusion, but, you know, Red, when I'm in the
mood, I sometimes go back and revise unpublished work of mine when
the form does not seem fully enough realized. I'm submitting
"Song To Valor" because I think it is the best work I've done in
some time and would like your opinion.

93 Sunset Trail,
Berkeley, California,
August 10, 1937

Dear Red,

The first two chapters of your novel held my interested attention
without break. It's organic work and intensely formed. Mr. Munn is a
full man and his struggle to fully understand his wife, his neighbors,
his clients and his fellow workers in "The Association" is heroic in
the lonely way we all know of one who give our fellow beings a second
thought. The sad psychology of introspection conflicting with Mr.
Munn's efforts to get outside of himself provides a dramatic conflict of
real intensity and I was moved and absorbed by it. I like the "country
feeling"; the dusty humanity of the work too. The scene is beautifully
rendered. As to the other characters, Mr. Christian and Sukie
seemed alive and kicking with a vengeance, and indeed all the characters
were interesting, though I like the Senator the least. However, I
know Senators are " like that" and it's a case of disliking the man not
the characterization. if fact it's a good sign that he's alive that
he arouses antagonism. There's real humor in the opening passages, and,
in short, whenever Mr. Christian appears.. funny humor and grim humor.
As for his daughter she certainly is lively and has her mind made up.
I hope she comes in often. It's really going to be a ding-dong,
walloping good novel, Red, It's distinctly in your idiom, and the
material is being resolved into a clear and strong work of art.
I've noted only a few passages which seemed to be a little out of
kilter. On page 1-13 you say of Mr. Christian that "he tightened the
collar around the big shaft of his neck". I choke a little on
"big shaft of his neck." It seems artificial. I'd rather have his
neck rendered as is than called a "big shaft".

I also object on page 1-10 to your referring to Mr. Christian's hand as "his great, red, hairy hand." Not "great" Red, I think, it's over-dramatic and tricky and trite. "Large" would be better in my opinion or just plain "red, hairy hand". On page 1-12 you say of Mr. Munn that"he made a sweeping gesture toward the street" there's too much of the actor in that and Mr. Munn's not an actor. Besides "sweeping gesture" is trite. I hope this doesn't annoy you, and you won't think it presumptuous of me, but if I were to re-construct the line as I'd like it I'd simply say, "He gestured toward the street, where the clamor was unceasing." "Where the clamor was unceasing" is a very fine touch, I think and now with "sweeping gesture" taken out the line is in the same world of writing as Bunyan, who in my opinion wrote some of the greatest prose of all. On page 1-23 you say, "Mr. Christian went down the stairs with a great clatter.." Again I object to "great". It's too easy and it forces and destroys the humor of Mr. Christian's noisy descent. I was a little confused at the abruptness of the transition on page 1-27, but I think that could be remedied by putting a line of dots between the last of what Mr. Todd said and the paragraph beginning, "Somewhat embarrassed.."

On the same page I think it's questionable that a great and diverse crowd of countrymen should stand "immobile" like a "patient beast waiting to be Fed." In any case I object to the simile as savoring of some condescension, though, let me hasten to add I know such was not intended and may be a purely personal reaction due to my liberal convictions. I do think the passage in question is over-simplified, however. On page 1-28, I don't like "tiny black-grabbed marionette". I think it's artificial and trite and moreover I don't think the crowd would be so large as to see even from its outermost fringe such an unduly dwarfed Senator.

I've often watched football games from Panoramic Way above and behind the stadium, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, and the players on the field were considerably larger than marionettes. What a great paragraph that is which immediately follows, however. You certainly do get the country, the people, the weather, and all into these two chapters which you have allowed me the pleasure, privilege and honor of reading. Such minor objections as I've been raising are not typical and do not reflect on the rest of the writing.. they are simply points in the writing to which I rebelled, whatever that is worth to you. They may even be, in some cases, purely esoteric objections, but I know you don't mind, so I'll go on. On page 1-30 did you mean to repeat the sentence, "The Senator's speech was the big one"? If so, I don't think it's effective. On the same page would such a crowd under a "blazing sun" listen in "absolute silence" to any speaker, even Mesmer, himself? I think the opening sentence of the last paragraph on page 1-30 is a little over-dramatized. Of course, the Senator is somewhat of a ham actor, but I think you've got hang it more around his neck than the word "Justice" vibrating in mid-air. I don't mean to be funny about this piece of criticism, if it may be called that, I've simply tried to state it clearly as I could. I think Mr. Munn's speech is very fine. On page 1-39 I don't like the sentence, "He felt cheated and betrayed." I think it's a little bit too strong. And the last line of chapter one seems to me an after thought and over dramatised. The beautiful sentence just before sums up the chapter perfectly for me.

I find very few errors of taste in chapter 11, but on 11-18 I think Mr. Christian becomes a little too violent both in his gestures and speech.

I mean I think he should be toned down just a little.. as elsewhere
he's distinctly not a type, but a man. I think the affectionate
scenes and the slightly sadistic, affectionate scenes between Percy
Munn and May are moving and creative writing of the first order.
Bunk Trevelyan's wife comes to life also, but when you attempt to type
her I think you go wrong. I refer to a passage on 11-28, where you
try to link her up with all the croppers. It just
doesn't ring true to me that even croppers' wives have no meaning
except "that meaningless meaning of resemblance to all the others."
It seems to me there is only a superficial and journalistic truth
in such an observation.. however appearances may seem to bear it out.
People are people and all different from each other as you have
insited elsewhere in your work. What follows between Mr. Munn and
Trevelyan's wife is nothing short of tremendously good. Your second
chapter is very, very fine, Red, and such minor flaws as I seemed
to have found in the first chapter have practically disappeared.
I don't mean that I didn't find the first chapter very fine also, only
I think you get warmed up more and more as you progress, which is
perfectly natural after all and the experience of all writers.
On page 11-31, however, I find it difficult to believe that upon his
return to his office, Mr. Munn would find Bunk Trevelyan's wife
sitting in the same posture as when he left her. In any case I don't
like "very erect on the edge of her chair" it seems sentimentally
untrue. On 11-36, at the risk of seeming tiresome, I must say I object
to a "great" flake of ash.. though I couldn't exactly tell you why,
except it seems too great.. for the thing being described.. and beside
"great" is an over-used and often misused word in modern fiction.

isn't
Your novel is a modern fiction! It's a damned good novel.. original,
excellent and humane and timeless, rather, undated. I'd revise the
last sentence of the second chapter, as it is neither an organic link,
nor a distinguished entity.

I'll hold the manuscript here till you come, unless you wish me to mail it. If so, let me know and I'll send it registered mail.

I got back here without incident and have been working on my poem with time out for eating, sleeping, and reading my mail. Thank God, I heard from Edith yesterday, and she and Jeanie are in good health and having a happy time. My whole life is pinned up in those two, and it is always one of the most joyful moments in my life when they step off the train at Berkeley station. That date is getting closer, thank God.

I had a very good time up at the Lake. In any case, it's always a great event seeing you, my boy. I'm a little sun-burned but it's not overly painful. If the Bronsons are still there please give them my regards. I liked them very much, I really did, Red, and I hope we shall be getting together often with them down here. I suppose Cinina is working hard on her fiction. She seems to have got the stuff. I was impressed.

My best to you, as ever,

Fitz

["93 Sunset Trail,\nBerkeley, California,", "November 23, 1937", "Dear Red,", "This is going to be short and sweet as I'm supposed to be\nlying flat on my back after an attack of acute indigestion.. doctor's\norders.", "The enclosed proof is without error, thanks for enclosing it.\nYou haven't got my name printed on it though.. but I suppose this\ncomes under the group heading.. Take care of this yourself, Red, if\nthere's some mistake. After all, it would be no fun appearing anonymous —\nly. I guess you have received my last letter containing the final\nversion of the poem to be included with the enclosed group..", "You sent me proof of Dorothy Van Ghent's stuff too, by mistake,\nwhich I return herewith, after vainly trying to locate her over the\nphone, or anyone who knew her. I kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Feb. 25, 1938

Mr. Lincoln Fitzell
93 Sunset Trail
Berkeley, Calif.

Dear Fitz:

Of course, I am delighted. An award, I am sure, was never better deserved. Cinina asked me, too, to tell you how happy she is about the matter, and Brooks and Erskine join me in congratulations.

Brooks and I have just finished a long discussion of "Philip Lester." In everything except a few minor details we are in agreement about it. Our basic reason for not publishing it in its present form is this: it is obviously a section of a longer work and a work that would depend a great deal on the working out of the entire plan. This is no criticism of the present piece; it is rather a vindication of your plan. In matters of detail, we had the following reactions: the college section does seem much weaker than the other--naturally, this material would be much harder to handle, and certainly we haven't any suggestions about the way to go about doing it. But this section does seem to have some bits that are somewhat shopworn. For instance, a lot of the stuff on page 25, particularly toward the bottom. In any case, it seems to us that the college section should be shelved. As regards the stock market section, we both feel that a sharper and fuller presentation of portraits, portraits like those we talked about last summer, might help. We also felt that in treating these portraits a change of style might be desirable, perhaps an arbitrary flattening of the style--almost a prose--or perhaps even prose insets, very short, of course. (This is all very tentative.) Perhaps a little more attention to the bits of realism in dialogue in the talk among the people at the stock market might be desirable. As it stands, there is now an attempt to make the poetic style absorb the realistic element. Might it not be better to abandon this compromise altogether and simply throw into contrast with the straight poetic treatment flashes of the realistic vernacular? So much for our objections.

April 18, 1938

Dear Red,

I should have written to you long ago, but I've been so
busy working at my work that things got put off. Thanks for the
prompt decision on the long thing, and the criticism. I think you're
right about most of the college scenes, in particular.

We're well, but going through the painful business of
house hunting, and getting ready to move. This town is crowded as hell,
but we certainly want to stay here if we can find a small house. So far..
no luck. We're getting pretty fed up with lower flat life, especially
with all the goings on above. Also the place is getting too small.

How is your work going? Your novel is really good, Red, it
has a sort of festive atmosphere. Maybe it will bring in money too,
a good fat sum.

I wish to God I could see you. I haven't much news. We haven't
seen anyone much. With you and Ray and Harvey and Howard Baker gone,
life has become a sort of howling vacuity. I've been writing hard
and hope to come through with the goods by next Autumn. My short
verse is going well too. I'm to have a couple of pieces in
POETRY, and my poem, "Weather Song", came out in QUEEN'S QUARTERLY,
Spring 1938. Do you get QUEEN'S QUARTERLY, there at THE SOUTHERN
REVIEW? There's an article on R. E. Lee, by Sir Andrew Macphail
(I guess he's the father of the editor, Alexander Macphail), in the
Spring issue. QUEEN'S QUARTERLY is issued by Queen's University
(Kingston, Canada), and it pays for stuff. I got five bucks, Canadian
money, for my piece. I'm glad to see Ray is going to have something
in THE SOUTHERN REVIEW again. I'm fond of Ray, and miss him and Julie
like hell.

Beside that, Ray is a good writer.

We went to hear Thomas Mann speak on Democracy the other evening.
I thought it was a pretty good speech, but rather synthetic. At the end
of the speech, who should rise from a far corner of Wheeler Hall with a
question, but our friend, Lorenzo Emo! He announced that he considered it
very dangerous for T. Mann, to divide humanity by calling all fascists
devils, and all democrats, angels, etc. The question was misunderstood
and Erika Mann ( who was answering questions for her father), said that
Thomas Mann had no objection to Christianity, whatsoever, and that it
was the foundation of Western civilization! One thing that Thomas
Mann said, struck me as particularly good, his comment that
democracy is more or less timeless or permanent, ( as the urge to be
free is permanent), while authoritarian government is somewhat of an
adventure in tyranny that must and shall pass. He said that he was
a believer in sound morality, personal and public. I'm inclined to
agree that the only permanent way to settle social ills, is through
good the development of character, but I dont see how economic ills are
going to be solved, in the meantime, without a more socialistic government
being put in power. Thomas Mann said he was considering settling in
this country. I hope he does. I think "Joseph And His Brothers" is
one of the best novels I've ever read. He speaks English very well,
though with what sounded to me like a French accent. According to him,
Hitler is certainly playing hell with Germany. He's also of the opinion
that England has been playing the dirty dog politically, and that
the Chamberlain government practically sanctioned Hitler's taking
over of Austria. That event certainly depressed me. I've always
thought of Austrians as being gay, spontaneous, lively, inquiring,
etc. Now the whole country is nothing more nor less than a
shouldered gun. It's clear enough what that little Hitler meant when
he called Austria the outpost of his Reich .. in others words when
trouble comes the Austrians will be expected to do plenty of perilous
work.

Do you and Ginina ever get out to the movies? Edith and I saw a humdinger called "The River" a government documentary film history of the Mississippi and its tributaries. Boy, when I saw the swirling leaping crest I got an acute impression of what it must be like to be perched near the awful brink. Dont get your feet wet, Red, for 'de lawd'. sake.

For Easter vacation we went down to Carmel for a couple of days. It was cold and dark, though the country and beach certainly are strikingly picturesque or something. The natives didn't look very prepossessing though. I dont think we'll ever move to the Monterey peninsula. Which reminds me, Red, if you dont hear from me before, address me here, and the letter will be forwarded if we've moved meanwhile.

Our warmest and best to you both,

2704 Virginia Street,
Berkeley, California,

May 11, 1938

Albert Erskine, Business Manager

THE SOUTHERN REVIEW

Dear Mr. Erskine,

This is to let you know of a change in my address.
Please send THE SOUTHERN REVIEW to the above address, hereafter.

Red wrote me that you, and the other gentlemen
on the Review, were pleased at my getting the Shelley Award
and joined him in sending congratulations. I was glad to
receive them. Please accept my best wishes, and convey my warmest
and best to Red. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell him about the
new address, as when I wrote to him a short time ago we had not
yet moved.

With thanks for your courtesy, I am,

January 19, 1939

Dear Red,

I've revised the last line of the fourth stanza of my poem, CHANTEY, which I sent you the other day, to read "The rainbow's leap in rocky spray," instead of "salty spray". Will you please make the change in your copy.

Warmest and best again,

March 24, 1939

Dear Red,

I've been seeing some very good reviews of your novel, and
it's being prominently displayed in bookstores around here, and in
San Francisco, and I've seen it in the circulating libraries that
I patronize. Edith was delighted with it, and was highly amused by
some of the racy language, as was I. I also found the tobacco war
really damned exciting in case I didn't mention it before. How is
your play going? It says in the current issue of TIME that you are
engaged on one about the contemporary South. Is it the one you told
me about, and quoted some passages of? If so it must be a humdinger.

I had a fine letter from Allen Tate the other day, in reply
to one I wrote him concerning his novel, THE FATHERS, which I like
a lot, and his wife's novel, Aleck Maury, which, as you know, I greatly
admire. It was good to hear from him and an honor too. I'd certainly
like to see them. Gosh, Red, why don't you persuade them to spend
this summer in "these here parts", think of the good times we could
all have "swimming in the rivers of joy". While the ruby sparkles,
me lad, who shall fear rheumatism, or the chill Pacific wraith. Now,
if I were only King of the Pacific slope I'd give you all San Francisco.
And what's more I'd gather some more of the best writers in the country
out here, Howard and Dorothy Baker, Andrew Lytle, and others I like,
and establish a press and a magazine that would leave New York
gasping and cement in closer friendship still the West and the South.
To be serious, I think it would be a mighty good thing if the West and
the South should get together and dominate the politics of this country.
I just can't swallow Machine Age out of Chicago, "my kingdom for a horse!"

The Bronsons came up one evening a month or so ago. Mildred was
lively, pleasant and cheery; Bud seemed tired out.

He read a poem he'd written about the burial of an old man at sea, an old, charity passenger, who died aboard the ship that Mildred and he came back from England on. I thought it was a touching poem, and one of considerable nobility of spirit.

We are getting along very well, and are passing merry. Jeanie is the most popular girl in her class, and is getting high marks in everything. She has a good voice too, and has interested a music teacher, of some repute, in her talent.

I have more poems coming out in this country, and England, soon, and enclose for your edification two new pieces entitled CANAAN and STREAMLINED, and several earlier pieces recently revised. Sometime, when you have the time, will you please let me know what you think of the work, Red. I've submitted a manuscript of my collected verse to Laughlin of NEW DIRECTIONS, who had replied in answer to a query of mine that he'd be interested to see my poetry, particularly the long pieces with view toward publication of one in the NEW DIRECTIONS yearbook, if his schedule proved too full to take on a book. He said what verse he had seen of mine had interested him and had made him want to see more. I think I stand a chance there. I'm now engaged on another long work, prose, or, I suppose it might be called a prose poem. It's going along all right, and I'm forty pages into it.

We've been over to the Fair, and it's quite a sight, in both senses of the word. The paintings in the Fine Arts building are truly magnifique. There are Titians, Rembrandts and Velasquez's that should arouse the most lethargic, wake the "living dead", and let light into the most dense. Also there are Goyas, Renoirs, and a whole slough, or is it slew, of moderns, most of whom I like, that is, when they are intelligible enough to be liked. You will also be charmed to hear that my musical education proceeds apace. I've discovered something, Brahms is great.

How is Cinina? I hope she is all right now. Our warmest and best.

January 19, 1940

Dear Mr. Brooks,

I've been revising my hill stories, and I wonder what will be thought of my INJUN MEDICINE now, or if I have as yet learned to play anything worth while upon the instrument of prose. I have sought to couch the stories entirely in the idiomatic language of a youthful narrator without reversion to "literary" constructions.

I wonder if I might ask you for Red's present address?
The last letter I had from him was postmarked Genoa, and he was on his way to Lake Garda. He wrote that he planned to go South in the winter. Although it may be seem presumptuous of me, I have been rather worried about his being in Italy at this time. Any news, especially good news about the Warrens will be very welcome.

P. S. A return envelope is enclosed in case INJUN MEDICINE is not deemed suitable. Congratulations on the continuing excellence of THE SOUTHERN REVIEW. I didn't like Zabel's article though.

L. F.

April 19, 1940

Mr. Lincoln Fitzzell
2704 Virginia Street
Berkeley, California

Dear Mr. Fitzell:

We still don't feel that "Injun Medicine" is quite
our story, though we have read it and waited and
read it again once or twice. This will account
in part for our delay for which we apologize, but with
Red away we are so shorthanded that we constantly find
ourselves far behind with our correspondence and have
to ask the pardon of our friends.

Red's present address is Rome, c/o American Express.
I have just had a letter from him in which he indicates
that he has had a very bad case of intestinal flu, but
that he is recovering from it. I too am considerably
concerned about his continuing to stay in Italy, for
the situation seems to me dangerous. Red indicates
that he is again having his passport renewed -- it ex-
pires May 15th, and he may be coming home then. Other-
wise, he writes that he intends to go to Sirminone.
But I shall fell somewhat relieved when he gets back
into this country.

I don't need to tell you that we want to see more
stories, and we are sending this one back with the
full realization that we are perhaps making a mistake --
the defect being not in the story perhaps, but very
possibly in the blind spot on our own eyes.

May 14, 1940

Dear Mr. Brooks,

I'm worried about Red, and wonder if he and Cinina are back yet. From the morning's radio report it appears Italy is about to "enter the whirlpool". Consequently we are becoming very anxious. Could you inform me by note or card, as soon as you have the time?

Thank you for your recent letter. It's disturbing news that Red renewed his pass port again, but I have been cheered to see that he is listed to lecture at the Colorado Writers' Conference this summer and hope that means he has already returned. I trust the influenza cleared up.

Please accept my best wishes, and thanks for many courtesies.
It was fine news when Mr. Swallow accepted my book, and it was very good of you to provide him with the example of a book contract. I have of course written to Red of my profound gratification over the matter, and of how good it is to think that it was he, Red, who directed Mr. Swallow's attention to my work.

2704 Virginia Street,
Berkeley, California,
May 18, 1940

Dear Mr. Brooks,

I've had a letter from Red, dated May 1, 1940, from Rome, since I last wrote to you. At the time he had no definite intention of leaving Italy, although he did definitely say he'd be in Colorado in August, which is some relief. We are glad that he and Cinina have recovered from the flu.

Hope I havent bothered you.

<table><tr><td>THIS SIDE OF CARD IS FOR ADDRESS</td></tr></table>

Cleavady Brooks, Memapping Editor
The Southern Review,
The Louisiana State University,
Baton Rouge,
Louisiana

[1937]

Night Piece

Moon of a brighter will
Than wildwood shade or hill,
Lean to this lonely sill
Beams of soft mending.
Quiet in dark re-light
Beauty's form naked-bright.
Spiral-dust, windy night
Whirl at road's ending.

Who knows what face is clear
In shadow's hemisphere?
Pouncing cat, startled deer
Leap in far stations.
Yet, by Spring tendrils twined,
White roses scent the mind,
Cool boughs to rustling bind
Breezy leaf-nations.

Now in earth-fragrant black,
Lovers to bliss lean back,
Labor's long sinews slack,
Aged hands tremble.
Stars of a glowing soul,
When will man's heart be whole,
Friendly as light control
Paths that assemble?

Hymn To Action

Now one shrinks cold, where heroes plunge,
His head a bleak and silent fear.
Rash youth, the rusted minutes lunge
More harsh than nature's brutal spear.

Leap in, as warm with manly will,
Far brothers cleave lake-frosty bloom,
Take heed no more of dreads that fill
For better guests Time's empty room.

Thus mind should ford its rugged deeps,
Burn thought on cliffs above lost graves.
Comrade, in shade of sunny steeps,
Death is our foe, not we his slaves.

MORNING RISE (A Soliloquy)

1

Dawn Awakening

Cold, dingy, white-lace window curtains guttering the grey, sea-city,
cliff-city dawnlight, cold

Rumors of the great Pacific muffled in the bare boarding-house room.
I lie, facing the window, thinking, "To work I must rise now, struggle
back sleep now; oh pray remove your itchy fingers."

Cold.. the patched carpet cold on bare feet bottoms, cold shadows of
the great Pacific swirling around bare ankles.

Step crouching, half-crouching, naked, step to the chair by the window,
into damp clothing step gingerly..

Cold.. outside the window is fog, billowing between cliff houses, beading
clothes lines in backyards, bedewing

Closed flowers.. Fog.. wreathing wraith music between fire escapes,
climbing

The back steps to the Salisburys.. old Mrs. Salisbury, her Monday wash
all wet still..

Clothes like rinsed ghosts, limp and lank, dangling from a clothes wheel
there across on the roof laundry.

It's chill in San Francisco, bay-horns sounding, channel waves low
lapping

Vicious rock, The Golden Gate. But down on lower Market Street
is a smell of burned coffee,
Clammy as fog, lunch-counter fog, the sullied ghost of the cool,
grey Pacific.

If only man breathed as pure, beading cool, rosy life, if only man's
aureole

2

Clasped things as freshly as fog-weaving music.. If only man.. but
hurry,

Hurry.. time hastens; past nine New York time now, at ten the stockticker
will jab out quotations.

I'll mark them.. at six in San Francisco, I'll mark with white chalk
on a black board under harsh lights,

The great Bull Market.. child of Coolidge. "Was it written in the stars?"

Padding now, secret-footed, across the hall, I breathe,
"Hush, dont awake them!" Five is too early, dont awake
Mrs. Matson's mariners, dark asleep, old men no longer standing watch,
nor dog watch, uninterrupted slumber

From night till morning, salty dreams, sleeping till the great morning.
Will they arise.. will they? Will Mrs. Matson's sea dogs bunk
in heaven? Will their souls, St. Francis,

Ariste from rafter trees, from kitchen smells of Mrs. Matson's boarding
house?

Or from their sins? Their sins.. mere vagaries, stout vagaries of
strong men.. lechery, fighting and rum.. They always
brought the cargo home.

## Now in the soft Pacific coil your sleep drowned sailors..

What is the next line, what? No time.. no time.. Come, hurry..
step

Into soap's acrid room, the drab and narrow chamber of a musty toilet
smell, come wash

Face, neck and hands; cold faucet floods feel good though light is
drab..

Grey-filtered through grey-frosted glass behold our poverty, St. Francis.

3

This worn lineoleum salutes you, this stained basin
Eaten by sweat of work and worried thought, salutes you, chill. The
rich
Have Roman baths.. The seaman under sea has sheen more fabulous
than either..

*Now in the vast Pacific drown your poverty lost sailors.*

Then stepping back across the hall behold day waver grey and narrow,
Through front door panes; up narrow stairs behold the morning climb,
grey ghost of foggy light.

Sleep on, old salts, youth will not spring once brine has chilled the
marrow,
Take rest till sun grows warm, take rest, who valiant stayed the
night.

Come to your room.. Time has no stanza-pause like poetry,
be quick

*Now in the mirror comb your hair, those wavy locks.*

There is one thing will not betray you, your reflection..

Or will it? Shall we then enlarge the thought? Narcissus gazed..
and gazed till ego grew

The sin of pride, the vice of smug complacency.. I am so handsome,
I..

That delicate clear face, high forehead, graceful mirror boy
tying his tie.

*Now in the mermaid's glass your forms are fixed doomed sailors.*

Wake.. wake from sea-investing trance, sharp recollect
the step must go downstairs, out to the world..

4

Fog-billowed street.. steep thoroughfare that breathes sea mist
between hill-gripping homes,

Your climb is clear of man or car.. your stout, cool houses shoulder
fog. Blank-misted panes,

Bay-windows glaze Morn's early dreams. What families, in trust,
St. Francis, breathe

Sea-echoed day! This ocean-bared peninsula

Once rocked! The earthquake's shudder, fire's forked tongue
raged vast downtown, and ruin spread

From baylapped wharves to broad Van Ness.. with scattered tragedy
beyond.

But, here, closer to ocean's side, was spared
Victoria, her solid style.. old, wooden, yellow brown
houses that bulge in window bays.. stout ugliness, the warder
And roof of family sleep, walled, hollow hush..

Cliff Street, your way is bare, for hilly bending up and down
between house silences, and on
Where men may reach the sea although the sea is hid.

Soon to your wave all swimmers come whelmed sailors.

## Downtown

We dip no more.. the city levels out

Toward piers lapped by bay syllables.. the fog
is high downtown, day's ceiling dark.. How harsh, how cold,
bleak-shadowed buildings echo back

The street car's clank.. Wide, lonely Market Street, your glass
store fronts, your high-gilt office window signs

Discover chill the barren reaches of the dawn.. Sleep, tradesmen,
sleep.. for only

The all-night restaurant is warm, the broker's house a-stirring..

5

Mart of trade, O mart of trade, by profit squared and loss unstrung,
absent thee from book-balancing till nine.

Shakespeare and Byron in my head, profaned.. Profaned, and yet
this afternoon, in college classes, I

Shall re-discover in the warmth of poetry a world apart
from these cold, dungeon blocks,

These pirate caves where sly-diverted goods new-wrapped in gloss
are ransomed for

The highest price the customer will pay.. What song
blew through my head chill tones of light?

Here is your stop, step down.. the breath of bare, cold streets again,
O spear of naked chill,

You cannot stay the minute's heart, race on.. Race on, as fleeting feet
spurn stained Western curbs to that vast darkened archway where
Flung steps plunge in to work's pale monotone.. Blank iron
spirals down to basement glow.. push in

The washroom door, that sudden gives on gleaming planes.. white, glossy
tile..

Behold your marker's coat.. it droops above upon the rack.. Exchange
alpaca grey for blue,

The shiny stuff will wear.. beside, a uniform looks well on you..

Now all things slink.. Through dim lift cellar gloom, leap shadowed
steps.. prepare your eyes

For daily greed, gilt perjured rays of Mammon's tomb.. all stairways
mount, but few toward Paradise.

Bull Market

This hall is so discreet.. it holds the echoes of investors' feet..
while further down

6

The boardroom threshold shines.. Turn in a glaring lighted place,
vast floor of empty chairs.

It's only one to six, and there's the board's black plane, the up-in-
front, where screeching chalk in white

Shall bloom a rocket price! I climb low platform steps and face
the space marked off for rails,

Which I shall mark this hour though I never ride.. Recall how once
the Pullman passed

Down by the S. P. sheds; how people dined in silver sheen.. I, wrenched
with envy, watched them go.. alone with tracks,

And desperate the disappointed wish.. Clamp on earpieces now.. one
sits below,

Beside the ticker phone.. His nasal twang.. They come.. they come!

Quotations hum..

I smell the bloody lamb that future holocausts shall numb! Not
Belgium's capital is gathered there,

But New York's millions, bright.. the dollar sign shines o'er brave
bulls and bears..

List to the rise.. of Union P! Hark, how Dodge Motors climb..
but not for me!

What's that I see? An air-drawn numeral? You've got to hold them
in your memory..

King Cole, his company, smart salesmen all.. grey-faced and so sincere,
a little queer,

And cold if trusting buyers plunge with fortune's fall.. And there's
Sid Cole, himself,

Small, natty, sleek and dapper.. he greets his cronies with a sharp-
faced smile, and good cigars that bear Havana's wrapper..

There's nothing up his sleeve but little daggers.. You'll get a raise,
five dollars more some day though bank and business staggers!

7

Soft! Soft! What's that, I hear?

The rise of Hupmobile, and somewhere far an Angel's tear
falls silently just off of Broadway..

She'll never get her Ermine now that he bought in the deadway
of Timken's slower rise.. "Come, dry your eyes.. the woman pays
and pays," he says..

The wad! The roll! It is the only pocket charm that rules
from pole to pole..

But some stocks fall.. Come, get your Dupont powder.. not munitions,
just the stock, or both..

Come, get your bread and butter.. and dont be late for supper! Hang
your hopes on Boston Maine,

Or plunge right in the great Atlantic and Pacific Tea combine.. But
leave a space between

Your conscience and your business acumen..

## Boardmarker's Dream

Blind, weary pace.. O closing hour.. I reach and stoop to chalk
the Miscellaneous in flower.. Tobacco, Colgate Palm..

The soap and not the psalm of green on coral isles.. O would I were..
sun-lapped and stretched afar

Upon a naked beach, where birds of blinding color bleach, with brazen
screech,

Palmetto shade, and idle hours.. calling from parrakeet to parrakeet,
"The lad's asleep.. Get up, rouse up supine young man, swim for your
life with all your powers!"

This hump of God, this glossy knoll, this lazy ocean-fingered world is
ours!"

And still the wave of distance lulls.. I nod..

the earphone voice is like a prod,

8

"Mark Can!" Mark ugliness in man! St. Francis heed, I pray,
how spitting seed of hailing greed chills warm thought's ray!

"Mark T and T!" Green phone cors hooked above tether our puppetry
to old Manhattan's ticker tune..

Beware, ye blind, O stay! Think on the price to come,
the yet to pay..

Mark Radio, while flushed below, mad crowds froth cries like whipping
spume and spray!

I summarise the opening, high, low and closing price of every stock
within my task.

There is a place for every numeral I trace
upon that summing board above,

But it's not Paradise.. mere space, in which to chalk the essence
of disgrace,

And which I face from Mammon's little mountain top. From such a step
could even Jacob leap

To Heaven? Past eleven, and all is well.. My occupation's done.. Come,
rush before the ferry's gone!

Step down, step down past Mammon's frown.. thrust into blue
and run

Up darkling steps at three for one.. Then down the long and crowded
hall,

I press along the silent wall, toward doorway light.. Burst out.. How calm
the day smiles down!

Chill fog has burned from tower-stone! The sun! The Sun!

Down Market Street

Peninsula of day, O flowered light, I race in sheen.. brow soothed by
zephyrs floating wanton soft between

9

Air-gleaming structures clinging to bare sun.. Bright ledges, cornices,
these stones,

Doorwayed and windowed hollow heights breathe Spring! Sea-echoed city,
shell of glimmering,

What rumors of the deep refresh your dream? Exalted people pass,
brisk-paced or wandering..

Some, turning cheerful faces, smile, "Less haste, young man!" I cannot
pause, but dodge and fleet

Past sunshine loiterers, honked auto horns, down into Market
Street.

Flash by.. it's close to noon! Though open markets spray
the air with apple-bloom,

I cannot stay.. "Come in! Come in!" fish grottoes cry to
appetite,

"Life is a merry din of knives and forks, and waiters scurrying
within,

To fetch you salad crab and steaming clams, fried oysters, cocktail
shrimp, cold prawns,

And all that in rich chowder's milky sea belongs! Away! Mouth-watered
thought.. begone!

Fly faster! Run! Time races too and soon
my ferry will be docked in street-end sun..

How maritime the model boats in travel's window shine!

Placards and gilded lettering, invite you to depart, Aloha Oe, upon
a gay-decked oriental line..

Rush on.. The Ferry Building rears ahead from day-broad wings..
square-shouldering

Spring's glow.. the gull-flapped air! Come, pace Time's airy race.. hands
swing above upon a lofty dial..

10

Crept hour.. it nears eleven twenty five! I spring past watches..
diamonds,

Ah, golden chains, when shall I ever be.. at once rich in new hat
and shoes?

Dont muse.. Race on! I cannot pause to riddle laughter in
cigar alcoves;

Nor puzzle raucous newsboy cries.. Wild headlines streaming
from my eyes,

I leap out on a vast and rumbling bay-front street.. the great
Embarcadero, shore-lined steep

With massive pennant-flying buildings, grey-faced stone..
where liners dock, wave-wanderers come home!

Shore-Break

Now, ferries pass, bow-creaming bright; steam whistles blast, hoarse
vents puff white, decks glide apart,

Where sunny idlers bathe in light, or leaning fathom foam's delight,
keel-hissing sharp.

O gulls, that swerve with fleeting glance, at bread shy childrens'
hands advance, what thrill of joy

Follows your swoop to skimmed expanse, where mounding wave and stray
crumbs dance, flocked wings deploy!

Buoyed softly on low swelling brine, we slide from haze of pavement-
climb, dock-sun and breeze of towered steeps,

While far by channel-rock, cliff-shine, blunt funnels of an ocean line
slant toward the deeps.