Letter

Sir

I am now availing myself of the Liberty you have frequently honoured me with, of dedicating one of my Novels to you. this poetry... for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it — was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters. He was very much admired indeed. He is as beautiful as a weathercock. I love the Surrealism. That it is unfinished. Only not quite so useful. It was the colour of an old football, and more or less the shape of one, save for the sunken cheeks and a strand or two of coarse, dry hair, like the hair on a cocoanut. Do you understand the sounds of the typewriter? (Includes manuscripts, early printed texts, corrected proofs and first editions). The 'scholar' me, you, worn out on poor pay, only our silence made us seem a pair. Yet fear that from me, it will always remain so; that as far as it is carried, it Should be so trifling and so unworthy of you, is another concern to your obliged (dadaist) humble

Servant
The Author

Ps. My city's fit and noble name resumed, choice aboriginal name, with marvellous beauty, meaning, a rocky founded island -- shores where ever gayly dash the coming, going, hurrying sea waves.