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November I don’t know why I’m writing this. There’s no real reason. I’m thinking “Maybe he won’t even get to read it”. But I feel like getting something off my chest. It’s like when you hear a swell lecture and you want to tell the lecturer that he put it over swell. Here’s how it started. I am a student in Brooklyn College of The City of New York (a small place despite the long name) and am taking a course in The Modern English and American novel. I had read very little previous to my enrollment in The course. I knew of men like Lewis, Dreiser and Hemingway only because their stories were popularized into motion pictures. I never heard of Sherwood Anderson. One day in class, our instruction, while criticizing a certain author, drew an analogy. She said something like this.”I felt that way when I read a book of Sherwood Anderson-I felt like opening the windows “ — She didn’t mention the book. Incidentally, she is a Ph.D. But, there’s something wrong with her, I think. She needs either a faith or a