Letter from Sinclair Lewis to Marcella Powers, August 23, 1942

              SINCLAIR   LEWIS  Sunday, August 23    In a mood, not corner-shaped but part tender, part sad, part very happy, after watching a sunset with the island-trees black cut-outs against water pale gold and rose, and then listening to the Grieg concerto, and thinking of you with The Ankle done, getting ready for your last play of the season, there somewhere in the hilly darkness far off to eastward.....Tender because you've had that season. Sad because this lakeside is so beautiful that even without you it has been a bright summer [the word “even” is crossed out] [“tho” is written in the margin] though often lonely, had you been here, it would have been glowing perfect; if you could have had your summer theater near here, and some home one shining day a week. OR, to be obliging, if we could have moved the lake, sun and pines and dusk and all, to be near a real summer theater for you.  OR, could have coaxed and beguiled you, just for one summer, from acting into the caricaturing for which you may have a divine gift. OR – but all the Or’s swoop down and carry you with them, no matter where they are winging!  And happy, at the last turn of my mood, of course, wildly happy that a week from tonight I start Eastward; a week from tomorrow, all day with Lieut Wells Lewis, at Fort Sheridan, Illinois; a week from the next day, off like a cannon shot for that bright mysterious spot that, confounding all the scientists, shines among rhe [the] White Mountains.    But not all mood. Thusaday [Thursday], sending the finished short story off to Edith's office, to be sent to the Cosmopolitan.  Friday, seeing Micky happily off for Vermont --the last few days growingly cordial and understanding.  Saturday, yesterday, finishing and copying and sending off to Edith, all in the one day, the piece I promised to write her for Motion Picture; and last night, a not bad party at Brenda Ueland's.  Today, reading MS and notes and getting back into the novel after two weeks of small boys and small stories; and an hour this afternoon, watching Al and Fefa Wilson and John and Mary Baxter play tennis. And now tonight -- wishing that you and I were packing up to start for New York and/or Mexico City and/or Havana and/or PETERBOROUGH, NEW HAMPSHIRE!  xxxXxxx    [written underneath the x’s]: very light