an American in blood, for then I would not be as
interesting to myself as I am now. Sometimes I stand before my mirror
and look at myself for a long, long time; it always surprises me that I
look so commonplace. Surely, something of what I have in me ought to
show in my face. But I know it's there, anyway. I know I'm altogether
different from anyone else, I know it with a kind of fierce joy; not
better, of course, but different.

"For instance, this regularity and system they talk about! You wrote me
to be more regular and the like of that, if I wanted to sleep better.
You, too, are a typical American! Just imagine me drinking milk to make
me sleep or grow fat! The thought of such a thing makes me shudder. Your
remark about amorous sport being a soporific if performed regularly and
without excitement made me double up with laughter. But I am quite sure
that the performance of such a 'duty' would not induce sleep. I am only
moved to such things by new lovers, and then I desire not sleep but
wakefulness. And then, too, usually such desires come to me at noon, not
at night, and who ever heard of sleeping at noon!

"As for the other physical exercises that you recommend, I do walk along
muddy, prosaic streets and work in our household until I grow weary and
ask the gods what sins I have committed. My beloved cigarettes, which
are as dear to me as sleep itself, my solace when sleep flies, my
comfort, you would take these away from me! What would I do without
them? I am without them sometimes, when Terry takes some of my tobacco,
and then I am angry at him! The only plan I have is to have enough
tobacco. Otherwise, I have nothing arranged, no plan. You think there is
something fine in having logical arrangements for all things. I have
never felt that way. I am only a poor creature of an hour, of a moment,
and have never had plans. I would love to be where you are now, in
Paris, that home of the planless, the free and joyous and emotional
people."

What most people think is good, is worth while, is in good taste, the
salon rejected; partly, of course, in the spirit of mere rejection, of
revolt, but based nevertheless on a higher ideal of human love than
obtains in our society. These anarchists are not historians or practical
people and they are not as much interested in what society must be as
in what society ought to be; and because they see that society is not
what it ought to be, because they as unfortunate members of the