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2. typed

 These days, when my manuscripts are off at ZIFF-DAVIS, and I am suffering the hinges of hell with simple waiting...

and waiting... and waiting... my nerves are raw, and I feel futile.

 Ah, God Almighty, you subtle Irisher, what a nerve you've got to be reminding me of those days when all the world in

Missouri was underlined green...and the spirit was fierce and unflinching. And one argued with every singing bird and every crack in the sidewalk and praised every common flower in the roadside because of the terrible joy of realizing that one was alone against all the odds of humanity. and now, comes the day when I realize I am becoming more and more, one of humanity, subject to all its failings and futilities. Oh, blessed mither [sic] of God! the world was, indeed, green as green around Moberly! h/w And, now to cap all my tribulations, my blessed old typewriter is busted.

 Ah, Jack, we are safely past more than we dream - I remember the time I hung by my finger tips to ^the ladder of a reefer

in a freight train pounding out of Utah into Colorado, and all my future and all my life depended on the strength of my fingers.