Everything is Nice

I was fairly poetic in the old days.
Much love, J.

Also there is nothing new except that I don’t always know which is the stroke and which is the writer’s block.

Oddly enough I still love Morocco best, though I do not admire it more. I think and think about what it means to me, and as usual have come to no conclusion. I dream about it too, in color, all the time.

I was disturbed by that as I have, since seeing you last, turned into an admirer of hers, and it would be nice for me to be admired by an established and talented American writer, instead of by my friends and no one else.

I’ve always liked it when something that I’ve looked at every day suddenly seems strange and unfamiliar.

I can’t picture anything being any different than it is.

Maybe that’s not the kind of beautiful thing you meant. Maybe you didn’t want to hear about snakes. Maybe you meant more like what beautiful things do I love that the world loves. [He does not answer.] I told you, Gabriel. Tea-roses.

I don’t know. Not as much as some people. I never think about looking up unless someone says Beryl, look at the moon! When I’m by myself I never look at the moon. I don’t know. I guess I’m not too keen on it.

Because I’m aware of the estrangement, as you call it, and they aren’t.

“They are not costumes,” he said distinctly. “They’re simply the clothes people wear.”