first came. I remember you wrote me an amazing letter."

"For one thing, I'll never be anything but a foreigner in
New York. I'll never quite believe Broadway. I'll never
cease to marvel at Fifth avenue, and Cooper Union, and the
Bronx. The time may come when I can take the subway for
granted, but don't ask it of me just yet."

"But the other writers--and all those people who live down
in Washington Square?"

"I never see them. It's sure death. Those Greenwichers are
always taking out their own feelings and analyzing them, and
pawing them over, and passing them around. When they get
through with them they're so thumb-marked and greasy that no
one else wants them. They don't get enough golf, those
Greenwichers. They don't get enough tennis. They don't get
enough walking in the open places. Gosh, no! I know better
than to fall for that kind of thing. They spend hours
talking to each other, in dim-lighted attics, about Souls,
and Society, and the Joy of Life, and the Greater Good. And
they know all about each other's insides. They talk
themselves out, and there's nothing left to write about. A
little of that kind of thing purges and cleanses. Too much
of it poisons, and clogs. No, ma'am! When I want to talk I
go down and chin with the foreman of our composing room.
There's a chap that has what I call conversation. A
philosopher, and knows everything in the world. Composing
room foremen always are and do. Now, that's all of that.
How about Fanny Brandeis? Any sketches? Come on.