I wrote to Max, "I'm not an expat, so much as the man fired from a canon." I wrote, "There is a civil war in my mouth."
In good taste, he did not try to address these remarks, but rather wrote to me of the Review, of bringing certain youths into our camp.
That night I dreamt that the Review had begun to meet on a daily basis, "like a provisional government in the garden of plenty."
I told Max about it, and signed, "Kafka with cream," after which he did not write to me for a long time.