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In a diary of three line, which I have kept for many years, I found the date I first met Marcel Duchamp. It was September 27th. 1916.

A friend had told me a young Frenchman, newly arrived in America, Edgar Varese, an avant garde composer, had broken his leg, and lonely was lying in a hospital in down town New York. Because I spoke French fluently I was asked to go relieve his loneliness. I was in my early twenties, shy and virginal and it embarrassed me to see one hairy, masculine leg hanging out the bed, while the other was in a case. It was a hot day, Varese was [[strikethrough]] léu [[/strikethrough]] lying alone in a small, bleak room. I was too timid to cheer him up, and found it difficult talking, because while telling him of my interest in his music, a fly entered my mouth, and too correctly brought up to spit it out in front of a stranger, I swallowed it.

But the fact that I spoke French was enough reason to invite me back for a second visit. It was then I met Marcel.

The facts of our friendship most elude. What I remember is the feeling, and therefor what I will write is more personal than either of use would prefer. To begin with, the moment I met him, I "fell in love", the way everyone did who met him. We discovered an instant accord, and wiht [[with]] no loss of time, sitting in the hospital room, Marcel on a stiff chair, I, on the foot of Varese's  bed, it was decided that we would "tu-toi" each other. He was handsome not only of feature, but from an inner gentleness that arieated [[aeriated]] from him. He had a smile that could met tar off a bucket. 

A week later a friend invited me to dinner and he was also there. Later he asked us over to his apartment. It was a large square room in the back of building, in which on floors below lived the Walter Arensbergs. It has the minimum of furniture, a large bed, unmade, drawing materials, and bits of chocolate and crackers in various degree of undress. After the over luxury of my parents home, I found it an hours space and rest. 

No sooner had marcel found the book he was looking for, than he said i must mret his friends, the ARensbergs, who lived below. I can still recall mu surprise as they greeted us warmly at the door, and I entered a world of art and culture that changed my life. Earlier in Paris I had hoped to find such a world by going to Florence to study with Gordon Craig, who ha opened a school or theatre group. My mother had corresponded with Mrs. Crag, and everything was in order for me to spend the Winter in Italy without her. Two days however, before the eventful trip, my mother loomed into my room, pale and ominous. 

"Did you know Gordon Craig was an immoral man?" she accused, her face green with schock. [[shock]]

"Why yes, of course." I answered surprised, for at that early age I had read most men were immoral, besides thinking that some day I would be seduced, far better to go through it with a man of with that a dullard.