This is a free country. Folks have a right to send me letters, and I have a right not to read them.
That's the one trouble with this country: everything, weather, all, hangs on too long. Like our rivers, our land: opaque, slow, violent; shaping and creating the life of man in its implacable and brooding image.
The writer in America isn't part of the culture of this country. He's like a fine dog. People like him around, but he's of no use.
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