And along with this I had no desire for drink because I still believed in many things--in the love of all men and women in the matter of man and woman love; in fatherhood; in human justice; in art--in the whole host of fond illusions that keep the world turning around.
But the waiting editors elected to keep on waiting.

My manuscripts made amazing round-trip records between the Pacific and the Atlantic.

It might have been the weirdness of the typewriting that prevented the editors from accepting at least one little offering of mine.

I don't know, and goodness knows the stuff I wrote was as weird as its typing.

I sold my hard-bought school books for ridiculous sums to second-hand bookmen.