To Scott, After April 1919

‘[…] Why should graves  make people feel in vain? I’ve heard that so much, and Grey is so convincing, but somehow I    can’t find anything hopeless in having lived – All the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels mean romances – and in a hundred years I think I shall like having young people speculate on whther my eyes were brown or blue – of course they are neither – Isn’t it funny how, out of a row of soldiers, two or three will make you think of dead lovers and dead loves – when they’re exactly like the others, even to the yellowish moss? Old death is beautiful – so very beautiful – we will die together – I know. […] Everytime I look nice – or do anything I mentally applaud, I always wish for you – just to hear you say you like it […].

[…] “Marcus Aurelius” is my literature in the absence of your letters – Tootsie thinks he’s most remarkable. I guess he was,  for his day, but now it’s all just platitudes. All philosophy is, more or less – It seems as if there’s no new wisdom – and surely people haven’t stopped thinking. I guess morality has relinquished its claim on the intellect – and the thinkers think dollars and wars and politics – I don’t know whether it’s evolution or degeneration […].

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