Viewing page 66 of 145

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

126
[[strikethrough] Saturday, May 5, 1928 [[/strikethrough]]

May 1, 1930

Evidently Bob did think of me, because yesterday I got a grand letter from him.  I am anxious to answer it immediately, but my common-sense tells me to wait until Saturday, or at least Friday.  I must keep my "common-sense"; it is that which has made this "thing" with Bob as perfect as it was — is.

I hope I'm not looking forward to the summer too much, and that it will disappointing.  I want to feel beauty, and express beauty, as well as see it.  I've gotten horribly Nature-y.  I mean that although I can't agree with Wordsworth's philosophy for instance, I do feel that it is a wonderful thing — this realness and quiet.  I want quiet and calm.  That is a foolish state for someone as young as I, but nevertheless I feel it.  I am just blase about going out and so on, but I do feel that unartificial things are more worthwhile, vital —.  I hate to let myself wear a "mask", use a "line", get "jazz-mad" all of that — and yet some of that is necessary.  "Balance" how terribly important it is.  And yet quite egotistical to worry about one's self so much.  Still, if me doesn't worry about himself what is there to worry about?  And should one worry — or just live?  And if just live, what is just living?


127
Sunday, May 4th 1930
[[strikethrough]] May 6, 1928 [[/strikethrough]]

I am at present sitting on some old, dried leaves, leaning against a comfortable rock, getting sun-burned on one side of my face, being crawled on by ants, and feeling deliciously quiet and alone.  About 3 minutes away from here is Quaker Ridge Golf Club with many chattering Jewish ladies gossiping and many corpulent Jewish men playing golf.  I am below a little rising, so that I can't see it — can't see it or hear them.  It's a wonderful day — strongly and definitely sun-lit, a little cool breeze, unoriginally colored blue sky, a few birds, calm.  I've been having this desire to get alone, someplace in the country — and here I am.  Is this Aline really a different Aline?  I think not.  I think that Peanut's Aline is the same as this one, but a little afraid to let people see she is.  I think that the real Aline is a nice person but not really a person yet.  She needs times like these in which to live — and think — and wonder.  I wonder if one ever can answer those inevitable questions of "what's the meaning".  I suppose the meaning is simply what one is and does.  I suppose if one could get out of oneself and see ones whole life — the pattern of it — there could seem to be more use and reason than each incident shows.  Philip Barry says there are these