I told 'em I'd got through part of my Final in
London before the bust-up came, and the Dean sent for me to-day and said
it seemed a pity for me to slog at the donkey-work again, when I knew
it. So we talked it over, and he says I ought to do the Final next year.
And then, Marcella, look out! I've told you I've laid down my challenge
to sickness! I'll have it whacked before I die. I can't see why anyone
should die except of senile decay or accident--and those we'll eliminate
in time! I feel that there's only a dyke of matchboarding between me and
the ocean of knowledge. One day it's going to break, and I'll be flooded
with it. It's a most uncanny feeling, old girl. One of the chaps here--a
rather mad American--says that there are people who've broken that dyke
down--Shakespeare, for instance. (But if I broke it down, I wouldn't be
such a footler as to write plays and poems, would you?) Corlyon--that's
the mad American--is the son of a big psychologist at Harvard; he gave
me some light on Kraill's remark about dreams that day. He says they're
being used a lot by some German and American alienists in curing all
sorts of neuroses. (By the way, old girl, next time you write, tell me
if you understand all these technicalities. I want you to understand
them, and if you don't I'll explain as I go on. One never can be sure
about you.
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