And, I've said it to you before, war would not stop your work in Maine,
but it would stop mine in East England.
I wish I could see a silver cloud in the black sky of today.
I sent the New Statesman a letter about the visa situation, but the
editor says that even anyone who took an active part in helping the
Left in the Spanish Civil War is unlikely to get a visa. I didn't do any
thing other than having a few Spanish children here free of charge. The
nasty parallel to that would seem to be that if I'd fought for Franco I'd
have been acceptable to U.S.A.
Our love to you all, and our hopes that Peter will have a happy
Christmas in the snow.
Orgonon
Rangeley, Maine
My dear Neill:
- I •
December 22, 1950I know exactly how you feel, Neill. Things look dark, indeed,
discouraging also for all of us here. It is too much to be discussed in a
letter. Keep on writing. Never mind whether it is cheering or saddening
news. It always helps.
May I tell you frankly what I think about the basic reason for your
depression? It is not your "aging"; you are younger than many an
adolescent. Neither is it that you cannot reach U.S.A. for the moment;
you know that things will change again, once the answer to the sneaking
of plaguey scoundrels has been found. It is something else entirely:
You have spent your life so far getting along with people well,
spending your time, effort and soul to help children. Then, after thirty
years of effort, you find that they still ask the same questions as in the
early twenties, that they still talk and act as they have acted 300, even
3000 years ago, in spite of all socialism, all revolutions and evolutions.
You find that nothing whatsoever comes out of them, paying back in
part for what they have swallowed through the years. Nothing but
nothingness, emptiness, babbling, gossiping, sniping, cheating, politicking
and the rest. Somehow you found yourself facing NOTHINGNESS in
the human animal. And you feel that making wine is more rewarding.
Let me tell you that this realisation brings you closer to the truth than
all the books you have ever read, all the speeches you have ever heard
or given. What stares you in the face is the perfect human desert, the