My 4th letter, postmarked May 1st, but written on April 26-29, 1972

April 26, 1972

Dear Kathy, 

             A few years ago did you say? (Hm, perhaps I have misjudged your age?).   Anyway, you do look cute.   That’s kind of an overused word, though — better to say — you looked a lot like the song “Waltz for Sweetie” sounds (whereas now you look much more like “Pretty Eyes” — but both songs do have a lot in common, including the same tenor sax soloist!)   But it’s not fair of me to “Quote” Jazz songs you’ve never heard. 

             As to your expression being “slightly hesitant”,. I think it looks more like you’re bemused and not quite sure you should be.   At any rate, I thank you for it. 

             Since you’ve asked:  No, of course I didn’t read Tarzan and practice my sax at the same time — the very idea is wholly preposterous in every conceivable way.  It’s impossible.  Any way you look at it — the sight of me practicing my sax while reading Tarzan is ridiculous.  Now of course, while practicing my sax I read Raymond Chandler and Antoine de Saint Exupéry simultaneously — but that’s an entirely different matter! 

             I agree that Cheetah’s role was certainly over done; something that, of course, doesn’t happen in the books.  Speaking of which, my parents also have early editions of Tarzan — The Return of, and The Son of — but I consider Tarzan of the Apes to be superior to both of these. 

             As to your Grandmothers comment concerning your feet, I can only say struck me as just the opposite. 

             Well, I see that you and vampires have … Uh, I’m not quite sure how to phrase it, but with the cartoon, and the “true-life adventure” and that movie and your next-door neighbor, well, I see they mean a lot to … well, Ah … you know, it was a really nice day today — a little on the cold side, but with all that sun, I certainly envy you your relatively free days. 

             Well, this is now post-telephone call of this letter.  The call has got me thinking about some things which I’m going to write down  —  I’m not sure how they’re going to come out, but without any more ado: 

             Right now, obviously, we don’t know each other well.  We’re heading there, and I’m all for it and I think you are too. 

             Until we do, we’ll spend a lot of time  —  feeling our way around  —  looking things over  —  laying groundwork, and this is as it should be for two reasons: 

1.) Basically, nobody wants to get “stuck” with a jerk.  That is, knowing something about someone gives you a certain “hold”, a certain “power” over them  —  the more you know, the more “power”.  And, quite rightly, we don’t want to give this “power”, this familiarity to just anyone (or everyone), so we use caution in making acquaintances. 

2.) This is the harder of the two, and I hope to return to it  —  and it’s tied up with two things again:

             A.) Nobody wants to appear a fool or be rejected, and, 

             B.) What is really important about someone?

             For A, there are innumerable examples of people putting their foot in their mouths  —  it’s hard, however, to define  —  but it’s mostly a question of time and place (as well as of course person)  —  for example, that postcard I sent you you thought was funny (and I’d hoped and thought that you would), but if your father had been killed by having his head blown off by a cannon in some war, I’m sure you would have viewed it a little differently.  And so, not surprisingly, most people will go out of their way rather than say something that might sound inept or downright objectional. 

             To B), of course, there is no one answer, for to different people, different things are important.  So, it isn’t just a question of what things people have in common and what they don’t, but it’s also a question of which they think are important and which aren’t to them.  And, included in these things are  —  What do they look like? and What kind of “Personality” do they have?, and all that that much overused word implies.  And, of course, these things are always changing to some extent  —  and even this becomes a factor:  How often do the things you think are important (and not) change and, by how much? 

             So, this, I think, is why we (necessarily) take time to get to know someone. 

             Now, things can go overboard with this  —  and this comes to the first thing I want to say:  It centers around the fact that much of what we say is ambiguous  —  it can take on more than one meaning.  For example, in your letter, you said that I, unlike most people, wrote letters as though I actually intended for someone to read them.  Now, on it’s face value it’s absurd  —  obviously everyone writes letters for someone to read.  But at another level was your meaning  —  that the letters were informative and entertaining, they were not just declarative statements, but were written to a special “you”,  —  and they needed the response of this you to complete them  —  similar to a conversation of only one side.  (By the way, I disagree, but we won’t go into that…) 

             Or. take the case of my writing  about my sax practicing while reading, at the beginning of this letter.   Your question, meant to be  taken humorously (from an ambiguous statement I made in my last letter), I have taken as if meant to be taken seriously  —  then scorned the question with the meaning I’d given it  —  then shown that my scorn of the question was solely based on an insignificant triviality, not the idea of the question itself. (well, if it had any humor, I’ve shot it down now). 

             Well, it’s one o’clock now, and I’m going to stop and go to sleep  —  it looks like this won’t go off tomorrow.  Actually, maybe when I read this over in tomorrow morning’s light, I’ll see what a mess I’ve made and throw it all out  —  in which case why am I writing this? 

April 27, 1972

             Good Morning.  

             Now that I’ve read over what I wrote last night, I’m appalled.  What do I think this is  —  “youth wants to know” or “Face the issues”? 

             On the other hand, since I’ve gone ahead and written all this, why should I let you off easy, without having to read it too! 

             Getting back to what I was saying before  —  I’ll continue with the story I refused to tell you on the phone. 

             Briefly, a guy I knew at UCONN [University of Connecticut, Stamford Branch], having just started to go out with this girl, took her to a movie and then headed for the beach to neck [aka “kiss” or “make out”]  —  when he got close, he asked her if she wanted to stop at the beach, whereupon she replied “I don’t care”, at which he got furious, drove her straight home and had no intention of ever calling her again. 

             Now, I think that’s funny, and I had a good laugh over it when I first heard it. 

             The point I’m trying to make by all this is that, if we have to check over everything we’re going to say to make sure it has no ambiguous meanings and cannot be misconstrued  —  ten we’ll never get anything said.  We’ll go crazy. 

April 28, 1972 

             This is getting ridiculeously (?) long.  I think a lot of times I, and to some extent everyone, think that “Wow, if I could just write down all my thoughts” or “If I could just say what I mean” what jewels of thought, what reason and eleoquence (?) would show forth  —  not realizing that these “jewels of thought” are just some pieces of quartz we’ve finally managed to notice and grab hold of; and our inability to express them is merely an indication of what a feeble hold we have upon them. 

             Well, it’s 25 of 12:00 and I think that’s a good time for a quote. 

             “I think the chief reason why we have so little joy is that we take ourselves too seriously.  Joy can only be real if it is based on truth, and since the fall of Adam all man’s life is shot through with falsehood and illusion. … This morning, before speaking, I felt very strongly. the limitations imposed upon me by my absurd desire to speak well as if it somehow mattered, as if something important depended on it!  Instead of simply desiring to speak as best I could in order to please  God.” 

             Amen.  Thomas Merton. 

and a short encore:  “Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours.”  C.S. Lewis 

             It is now Saturday, which means I will see you, but for now  —  Good night. 

April 29, 1972 

             It looks like a beautiful morning.  I won’t be able to write much now since Harry is due shortly. 

             Have you ever read Gogol ’s “Diary of a Madman”?  (That’s a straight line, you’re supposed to answer: “It’s seemed like it these past few minutes”.) 

April 30, 1972 

             This is getting to look like a diary all right.  Actually I might have finished up last night, but surely you didn’t expect me to miss Sherlock Holmes in “Dressed to Kill”? 

             Now that I look over my quotes, I think the C.S. Lewis sounds ambiguous  —  notice he doesn’t say “thrown away” or “misused”.  But so long as this is going to be a great long letter, I’ll write out a couple more, but first … 

             Yes, where I saw Edith Nesbit’s name was in my Dover catalogue  —  they list sixteen of her books.  Which do you recommend? 

             No, I didn’t mis-spell that Russian word after all, but if you tried to look it up and couldn’t find it, it’s because the “He” is a prefix meaning “Not” (coming from “Het”, the Russian “No”, usually written in English as “Nyet”)  —  but you needn’t look it up, the pronunciation makes it obvious. 

             I started reading A Clockwork Orange, but don’t like it.  I’ll read further before I give up, though, in hopes it will get better.  A couple of my criticisms now are:  The clockwork orange within a clockwork orange seems to be a big ego trip, especially because of the brutal treatment the “author” gets, and; the “anglo-russian” words must be annoying to those who have to look them up in the back as well as to those who know Russian because it’s made so “flat”.  Like if I were to write: Kill ure eteel? or Common say vah? for French (and I’m sure I could come up with better examples if I knew a decent amount of French).  Think how poor those would sound from someone who didn’t know the equivalent French. 

             No, horrorshow is just not the same as хорошó (not to mention the fact that the Russian is strictly an adverb, the adjective having a different accent as well as ending  —  also the “х” is pronounced like the :ch” in the Scotch word “Loch”, by the way). 

             Have you ever read David Lindsay’s “A Voyage to Arcturus”? 

             Well, now  —  oops!  —  I mean: well, anyway, here’s some more quotes  —  First, to clear up my last one: “There is a paradox here.  As long as Dick does not turn to God, he thinks his niceness is his own, and just as long as he thinks that, it is not his own.  It is when Dick realizes that his niceness is not his own but a gift from God, and when he offers it back to God  —  it is just then that it begins to be really his own.  For now Dick is beginning to take a share in his own creation.  The only things we can keep are the things we freely give to God.  What we try to keep for ourselves is just what we are sure to lose.” 

             Sometimes I think he write just for me  —  this may sound conceited with what I’m going to quote now, but better that than the even greater conceit of false modesty  —  : 

             “If you have sound nerves and intelligence and health and popularity and a good upbringing, you are likely to be quite satisfied with your character as it is.  “Why drag God into it?” you may ask.  A certain level of good conduct comes fairly easily to you.  You are not one of those wretched creatures who are always being tripped up by sex, or dipsomania, or nervousness, or bad temper.  Everyone says you are a nice chap and (between ourselves) you agree with them.  You are quite likely to believe that all this niceness is your own doing: and you may easily not feel the need for any better kind of goodness.  …  Much is expected from those to whom much is given.  If you mistake for your own merits what are really God’s gifts to you through nature, and if you are contented with simply being nice, you are still a rebel:  And all those gifts will only make your fall more terrible, your corruption more complicated, your bad example more disastrous.  The Devil was an Archangel once; his natural gifts were as far above yours as yours are above those of a chimpanzee.  …  What can you ever really know of other people’s souls  —  of their temptations, their opportunities, their struggles?  One soul in the whole creation you do know: and it is the only one whose fate is placed in your hands.  If there is a God, you are, in a sense, alone with Him.  You cannot put Him off with speculations about your next door neighbors or memories of what you have read in books.  What will all that chatter and hearsay count (will you even be able to remember it?) when the anaesthetic fog which we call “nature” or “The Real World” fades away and the Presence in which you have always stood becomes palpable, immediate, and unavoidable?” 

             Lastly, one from Father Delp: 

“He is as near to us as our desire for Him is sincere;  His mercy is as Great as the wholeheartedness of our appeal for it;  His freedom is as real and imminent as our belief in Him and in His Coming  is unshaken and unshakeable.” 

             I saw Harry this morning, which was really coincidental  —  in fact looking over it, the whole morning appears God-sent. 

             I had felt bad because I’d forgotten to warn Harry yesterday not to wait around and also that I’d missed my sister [Nancy] playing at that Mass.  Yet, because I missed it, it meant I’d go to one this morning  —  and despite all my reminders yesterday (I’d spoken aloud about it at least twice), I forgot to set my clock ahead, so, I arrived over an hour early for Mass. 

             Now, they hold C.C.D. classes between the masses, and I arrived just in time to fill in for a teacher who was absent (it was just proctoring a test), which they appreciated.  Also, I got to speak to Father Berube, who told me that the make-up (oral) Confirmation Test to be held at 3:00 had been moved up to 1:00.  Seeing as I’d volunteered to be one of the questioners, this was useful information. 

             Since it’s a 20 min. walk from home here to Church, and it was 11:30 at the time  —  I decided to eat there (the church is just up from a number of shops at what they call “four-corners”) instead of going home and then have to come back. 

             So I stopped at a drugstore, decided whether to buy a paper or a paperback, and walked over to lunch at a singular establishment which referred to itself by the salutary name “Howdy”.  Forsooth, as I gat my way hence, I was espied by a noble lad height Harry, who betook it upon himself to beckon me thither. 

             And not only did I get to talk to Harry, but when I went back to the church, the only other “teacher” who came was Mr. Cahill  —  head of some local school, I forget which  —  whose daughter I had in my class, and who, I thought, had let some other girl copy from her on a test I’d given recently.  Since we’d both arrived early we got a chance to talk about it (I’d had Father mention it to him previously)  —  which was good, and I doubt if there would have been another chance for it in months, by which time, certainly, we’d of all forgotten about it. 

             So, everything turned out very well. 

             And speaking of coincidences, Father Berube (He’s the one who “volunteered” me to teach C.C.D.  —  we get along well, I buy him Irish Whiskey and he tells me dirty jokes) lives, and spends the beginning of each week in Marshfield (I think his father, or brother live there). 

             Well, I was going to stop here, but, when I’m so close to making this a 10 page paper(?)  —  How can I just stop? 

             I’ve enclosed a postcard, which I’m sure you’ve already found out.  It’s not art  —  it’s taken from a picture that was taken on another world, another planet.  A planet very different from ours  —  a moon  —  a place where there’s no wind and no sound.  Colors, but not the living colors of Earth, rock colors, dirt colors, dust colors, grey appearing almost white against the blackness of Space dotted with tiny whites and reds and blues all the more striking for the lack of color around them.  And then the Sun, big and bright and yellow.  If you put out your hand it would burn on one side and freeze solid on the other. 

             There now, I’ve given you at least one good chance to laugh at me. 

I did enjoy the Durër  —  though I got the impression from you that he painted a lot more scenery (like The Grass Plot), did he? 

             The idea of a 10 page letter is ridiculous.  How can I stand it?  How can I send it to you?  How could I have written it all?  How could you have read this all?  What I’m trying to say is:  “I can’t believe I wrote the whole thing.” 

             Have you done any more work on your Art History paper?  From what I could see, it shouldn’t take you too long if you can keep the same pace you’ve started with, but then I guess these things always turn out to be kind of a grind anyway. 

             By the way, Dynamogenecy (?) is generally determined from a study of Early Childhood Reading and Writing habits  —  and its main importance is as a factor in Child Development. 

             Well, it’s done, and I’m sure it will be quite a while before I do one this long again, but if and when I do, it will be, as always, 

                                                                with Love 

                                                                         Peter

    Ah, let’s see.  You went on to other things.  Well, by now, I am not too afraid of appearing a fool.  I’ve had enough boy friends . . . Well, it’s hard to explain …  I think I understand males pretty well.  They’re pretty freaky about things, like that guy and his girl and the beach story you told me.  Promise me one thing, and I promise, too, to you:  Don’t cut me off without explaining why.  I hate that idea.  I’m not stupid and I’m capable of understanding.  If the situation should arise, and I hope it doesn’t, let’s not be “ambiguous”.  I think you agree?  That sort of takes care of the rejected part, too. 

    I understood what you meant about “ambiguous” better from what you said Saturday than from your letter, which tended to ramble a little.  Just a wee bit. 

    Well, anyway, (you really got me doing that now!) I’ve sort of taken the beginning part of your letter rather analytically (?), when actually I’m writing about basic human emotions. 

    I could think of a very specific thing to say to you, but as I’ve said, boys tend to be freaky about things, so I will wait, silly as I think it is not to say what I feel like saying, which you would probably like to hear, but …  I’ll vague out on that one. 

        Maybe this will do: 

    The goodnight kiss bit as we performed it is not something I hand out with green stamps. [i.e. S&H Green Stamps, widely used in the ’60’s & ’70’s]  In fact, it’s been bugging me quite a bit, which is probably a sign of my tender age, but heck, Peter, if I can’t talk about this there isn’t much point in continuing: 

    I guess I’m terribly old-fashioned but I always figured on saving that (Sat. night) for someone special, so congratulations on being the first to succeed where many have tried and all have not gotten very far. 

    Boy, I just reread these last few paragraphs and they sound awfully stuffy.  I don’t know.  I’m beating around the bush.  That’s not good.  I think you’re special.  There, that’s to the point.  I like you, and I think you’re special.  So that’s why, etc. 

    I think the fact that I’m over tired is showing up very much in this letter.  For the next three weeks it will be cram, grind, cram. 

    Don’t take anything I’ve said the wrong way.  I mean, don’t be offended by anything, not that you should be I don’t think. 

    Oh, Peter . . . 

    A man’s mind and a woman’s might, said Shakespeare, quoth I. 

    Tell Harry, he’s a doll.  Maybe not quite up to you, but a fine fellow all around, for being so good.  I mean that sincerely, even if I do sound idiotic. 

    Oh, boy, I’m getting silly. 

    What a dumb letter. 

   I liked your quotes very, very much. 

   Peter, this is stupid.  Would it be “downright objectionable” and putting my foot (size 9 very, very narrow) in my mouth to say what I had absolutely no intention of saying (here’s where I blow it, oh, well) by saying that I. think I, well, anyway, I think um . . .  It’s breaking all my rules, every last one of them.*  Such a short, short time.  Oh, 18 year old agony . . . 

           * Am I confused, or am I confused? 

That letter of yours absolutely sends me, I mean, it’s almost like a metaphysical love letter, which are rare and far between, or few, or something. 

    If I ever send you this …  Arrggh.  How very embarrassing, you know, how very female and dumb.  But then, I am a girl. 

    Well, I am not going to say what I had absolutely no intention of saying.  This letter is the bad side of me, the awkward, confused side of me.  This is me that stands humble before God and realizes how insignificant she is.  This is me embarrassed and red-faced, me being uncool and unvocabularied (quite a word, eh?) 

    This is me in mid-air waiting to be caught, uncertain a little, feeling rather small, like a child. 

    There was a word in one of your quotes, anaesthetic.  Well, there has not been too much in the way of anaesthetics for me since I was 7 years old.  I might as well tell you about what happened then since I only just got over it last year. 

    When I was seven I had a little brother.  He was just a baby, really, a little younger than your Kate.  His name was Jimmy.  We were very close.  He was sick (cancer), always in the hospital.

    One night, when I was in bed, my parents came home late from the hospital.  My mother told me he was gone.  I couldn’t believe it. 

    The next day I was up and playing.  What happened to my mind between the time she told me and the next morning I don’t know but I completely blanked the thing out of my mind.  I could talk about it but it wasn’t real.  Part of me went with him, I think.  Part of me is stuck at age 7 and always will be, I think.  Now that I’ve learned to cope with it I don’t think it’s such a bad thing.  Wasn’t it Christ who said you had to be like a child to get into heaven?  Part of my soul will always be at what St. Thomas Aquinas referred to as the age of innocence.  My mind is not age 7, nor, obviously, my emotions, but my spirit is. 

    Children do not have anaesthetics, I don’t think.  My relationship with God, to refer to your letter, is a very simple, direct one.  So is my way of loving very simple; and I wish I could be direct about it with people as I am with God.  But I am very subject to being hurt and I don’t want that.  I’m not ready for that. 

    I feel very shy, now.  I don’t think you think I am, ‘cause I’m very good about hiding it by being clever, but cleverness is a very small thing.  Much greater are the vast worlds we have in our spirits.  But that world is too much to present to the world. 

    You may disagree with me in my thinking that I should present an attractive front to the world.  However, when faced with a choice of reading two “heavy” books, I think one is more apt to pick up the one with the attractive cover.  You did, didn’t you?  With me, I mean? 

    Well, Peter, I don’t know what you will think of all this.  I really do think you will understand or I would not have told you about this side of me.  I imagine you would have found out for yourself, eventually, but where you and I are concerned, I feel the need not to waste time. 

    That brings me back to the present, that word time.  Last sentence, there, in above paragraph, could be misconstrued.  Don’t.  All I mean by it is that if I can explain something to you about myself quickly and efficiently, why mess about? 

    Back to the part where I really vagued off.  You’re intelligent.  If you think you want me to explain myself, I will.  If you don’t, I won’t.  There are some things that are like the flowers in spring, if they bloom too early, they are apt to die in a frost. 

    I would like to know what you think of all this.  Feel free to comment.  Well, pretty free, ho, ho. 

    Six pages and I’m not finished yet. 

    You are not getting the point of the language in Clockwork at all.  Burgess is doing with the Russian language what Joyce did *.  Take the word horrorshow, e.g. There is in the novel, the supposition that the Russian culture has had a strong influence on the American culture, including language.  Now a violent kid like Alex would take the Russian word for good.   To him it sounds like “horror show”.  Now a horror show would be good in his violent mind.  Do you get the pun and the implication of the degeneracy of Alex’s mind? 

            * What Joyce did in Ulysses or Finnegan’s Wake, I forget which, now, with the English language. 

              Burgess does a better job in my opinion, with what he’s trying to do. 

    Also, I read it without looking up words all the time, made a point not to use the glossary.  You should be able to pick it up rather quickly.  You have to attune your ear to Burgess’s sense of rhythm before you’ll get it.  Read it out loud to yourself.  When he swears in that Russian slang it sounds much more abrasive, than, say, our “damn you” or whatever.  There’s music in it.  That’s the point.  Burgess is very much a genius. 

    When I say fate, I mean, the hand of God.  As you experienced Sunday morning.  Like when I went to that dumb mixer and met you; instead of another Holy Cross dumbbell to add to my collection of Holy Cross dumbbells and their ilk.  That’s a nice word, “ilk”. 

    I went kite-flying the other day with the two little kids I baby-sit.  Would you like to do that someday?  If so, I will buy a kite, since I lost my old one. 

    And Frisbees, I love playing with Frisbees. 

    I liked your description of the post card even better than the post card.  I wouldn’t laugh at you, not when you write like that.  (Other times, maybe, but not then.) 

    In fact I quoted your “thoughts of quartz” line to a couple of people, since I liked that very much. 

    Ok, well, Peter, Kathy’s tired.  Kathy has to study for an Art History test she probably won’t take but will make up later. 

    Ho, ho, Doug Harbo expects me to read Hauser & Toynbee over the weekend.  Ho, ho.  Doug thinks I’m a genius, which maybe I am, but not over the weekend.  He’s awfully crummy looking, poor thing, but I maintain that he is rather bright.  But not as smart as you, no way.  He’s got a bit of a crush on me you know and he’s 30 years old.  Isn’t that ridiculous?  That’s not why I like him, you know. 

    Oh, Peter …  17th century Flemish Baroque, who needs it?  And don’t answer that, please. 

    Girl told me a sad story today.  Tell you some other time.  Am fading out rapidly.  Will go to bed, now, nice, warm, just what I need …  Goodnight. 

Peter,

    Oh my head!  God only knows what time I went to bed last night.  Been having a lot of nightmares lately, because of trouble at school.  Which I will talk about now. 

    This morning before I came to school I had a discussion with my mother about this problem and she said why don’t you talk it over with some people, and so I would like you to take this into serious consideration if I may borrow your beautiful 3.85 brain. 

    I’ve been doing some thinking lately about how much time I seem to be wasting down in the Art Department.  Partly your thoughts on self-respect have influenced me quite a bit in this matter.  I think I would have more self-respect if I changed my major from Art to English. 

    Strangely enough, I am important enough over here so that there may be serious repercussions in the Art Dept. over here if I do this.  Like, I was supposed to be the Great White Hope of the ’75 class or something.  You know I realize how conceited this sounds but it is true.  I could give lists of all the competitions I’ve won and statues and awards, but how blah.  How unnecessary. 

    The point is, my parents and I feel (especially I) that I have learned absolutely nothing in the Art Building.  I’m pretty certain I could do very well in Eng, in fact my average would probably go up, since my marks wouldn’t be based on whether I passed my popsicle stick sculpture in on time. 

    You’ve helped me achieve my realization that my brain has been stagnating in the caverns of Catholic school thought. 

    We are now on Hardy in Mrs. Broderick’s class.  She is brilliant, another reason for me to change my major.  There is no one to compare with her Dickensian manner & understanding, in the Art Center.  I mean, there aren’t any teachers down there worth their salt.  (Ancient Rome paid their army with salt). 

    Anyway, I feel I have too much brains to waste on the garbage I’ve been doing.  The stuff you saw is the stuff I’ve done on my own time.  The stuff I do here is garbage. 

    I wish I hadn’t been so dumb

    A lot of my friends in the past few years were  Protestants, and I think that I’ve been influenced to a certain extent by their “work ethic”.  That is, I believe in hard work as a means of proving one’s own worth.  Add the Catholic idea of joy, of charity, caritas, in its true sense, and you have what I believe in. 

    So, these beliefs of mine cannot be reconciled with what I am presently doing.  Which is not much.  Compared with what I am capable of.  (What am I capable of, you wonder.) 

    Life is interesting. 

    Everyone in this class wants to know what I’m writing.  Girls are very nosy (?)

    I have new sandals!  They’re Dr. Scholl’s like your sister’s, but a different style, a little less cloppy.  And I figured I’m pretty clumsy as it is, so I got these, instead of one’s like hers. 

    I wish I hadn’t been so dumb (literally) around her but I told you I’m very shy, unless I’m desperately bored.  I couldn’t think of anything to say and felt like years old, standing there holding your hand. 

    Life is full of painful embarrassment at this age.  Embarrassment is to my mind a mark of conceit. 

    I look like Alice in Wonderland today.  Blue dress with puff sleeves, hair tied back behind my ears.  I love clothes, it is my vice.  Not necessarily expensive clothes, but clothes that express my feelings.  (Does that mean I feel like Alice today?) 

    [Re Alice] Do you like Lewis Carroll? 

    Why must we analyze books as we read them?  It really ruins them. 

    No I haven’t read “Voyage to Arcturus” (?).  What’s it about? 

    Get The Phoenix 

          The Five Children and It 

          The Would-Be-Good series 

          Book of Dragons 

or any other of Nesbitt’s titles that sound appealing.  I didn’t realize she had written 16 books, maybe you should tell me some titles, I wouldn’t mind buying some. 

    Have you been to The Book Clearing House; or Brentano’s in the Prudential [Building]?  If not, let’s.  The latter carries Dover publications. 

    I’m so glad you’re interested in those books because they have always been very important to me. 

What does dyno-whatsit have to do with me, by the way? 

                                                                                                                                                                11:10 AM

     Same morning.  Just talked to Mrs. Broderick about possibilities of changing my major.  She was very encouraging, I must say.  What da you think? 

    Maybe it will not seem all that important to you but it will be signs of quite a change in my thinking for me to do this. 

    I have lost all count of how many pages this is.  But long letters contain elements of math, I mean, progression, you know.  It is a question of, for each page you write I can think of two pages worth of answers, and if you do the same, well, on & on, but of course you will have more sense. 

     What did Harry do that day?  I’m curious.  Did you tell him you were so entranced by my scintillating conversation and felt so fortunate to be in my company that you couldn’t break away?  I hope so, because you know you should always tell the truth. 

     I have no clippings, nor, charming photographs.  Just these precious words of mine. 

    Yes, you’re right, to go back to your quotes, or rather, the various people who wrote them, are right.  It took a lot of trouble for you to write them down & I thank you. 

    Notice how my handwriting has changed?  Shows how my mood has changed considerably. 

    I feel fantastic right now.  I think — 

    I just got interrupted, I don’t remember what I think. 

    If I change my major, I may try to take a summer art course, for a few days a week.  That would be beautiful. 

    Oh, Peter, Peter, I feel much better.  Getting things straightened out, I mean.  Thanks for helping. *  I guess I tend to be ecstatic. 

         * I still want your thoughts on the major change.   What I mean is that I feel better because I’m thinking again.  My brain’s been asleep for so long. 

Enough, enough.

    Please answer all this, after all, I answered yours.  Even if it gives you a bit of eye-strain and confusion of the brain. 

    I hate saying good-bye, even in letters.  I’ll put if off a little. 

    No, I won’t.  This letter has been a means for me to analyze myself.  Oh, well. 

          Au revoir,

                        Avec tout l’amour, dans mon monde, qui est très petit, 

                              mais je suis très petit dans le monde. 

                        Kathy                 Suffers in translation, I’m warning you. 

P.S. 

     Obviously, from this letter you can see I don’t take myself too seriously, or I wouldn’t have been able to say what I said in it.

               K.C.

        Over ⤑

I see I forgot a few things. 

     As far as Dürer goes, that book is not the best I have, in fact Monday my father bought a much better one.  Dürer did do quite a few small landscapes, unique for his time. 

     That’s interesting about Father Berube(?).  Where does he stay exactly?  Does he know St. Christine’s?  Marshfield reminds me of a really exciting story about my grandfather that I will tell you next time I see you. 

     No, I haven’t done a bit on my art history paper, but as you say, I expect no trouble on it.  No matter what I do I’ll get a B anyway, so I’m not going to worry about it. 

     How could you have been over an hour early for Mass when we set the clocks an hour ahead?  I missed Mass Sunday morning because I woke up at the right time but it was an hour later according to Daylight Savings.  So I had to go Sunday night. 

     No, I’ve never read Gogol’s Diary, but, as you say, I’ve read yours, and that will suffice. 

     Why didn’t you tell me my face was bright red from sunburn? 

     Silly boy, 

                    Love,

                       Kathy