Letter, dated January 8, 1952:
I'm sorry we managed to elude each other so successfully during the recent brief holiday, but life was excessively traumatic.
Permit me to announce, at this time, the termination of the Romance of the Century... (not to be confused with the Greatest Fights of the Century, which is a television show on boxing)... which after an eventful three years and half, etc., etc.,
I am working. This time for the University. I am the receptionist at the Reading Institute for Children Who don't Know the Alphabet (in sanscrit) and retarded Adults. It is very dull here except when the children do some perverted thing like stop up the toilet, or walk through windows. Then it gets very interesting. The woman I work for is a bitch, and she hates me, but then so does everybody else. Every day, all over the world, mankind observes, religiously, fifteen minutes of hate Alice.
I saw George Broadfield for the first time in about two years the other night, and he bored the hell out of me for half an hour. What is left in life for me now, if even Broadfield is boring. He has, by the way, the East via, I suspect, a Tibetan fairy or something related. Anyway, he has decided that he is a Negro, and that he's going to South Africa like Augustine or somebody.
I have been having fierce pains in the stomach for about two weeks. It's probably psychosomatic, but I prefer to think that my brother has been feeding me large doses of ground glass in my rice crispies.
I once wrote you a letter when you first wrote to Dave Green but I think I lost it. Or maybe I handed it to Wm. Riley Parker instead of a Milton paper. I haven't been to that class since that day, anyhow.
I still do not have a thesis, or even an idea, and I don't expect to have one.
What is Chicago. Do you the like U. Are you going to the U. I met somebody who knows you whose name is Pearl Weis-something. I don't think she likes you. She is divorcing her husband.
I had a nice christmas. I got presents and I got drunk. Write to me unless you're too busy or something.
Found in "Collected Poems: 1909-1935" by T.S. Eliot. Published by Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1936.
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