I think it would be a famous idea to have sketches and stories.¹ I wrote one on the spot, called Daphne—about a plant. I'll try and bring a whole lot home, and you could stick them in under noms de plume—if you wanted to.

Yes, it's true about Catholics: their world is not our world—my duty is to mankind—theirs is to a personal deity—a really-living King with a flashing face who gives you rewards. I read a panegyric by a Jesuit t'other day which did astonish me.

“God shall be our most passionate love. He shall kiss us with the kisses of his mouth” and so on. It disgusted me. They horribly confuse sexuality and the state of beatitude. I know really a good deal about Catholics now. Of course, there's no doubt J. is a saint. But she has given herself up to the whole thing. She works like mad for the glory of God—lives for his glory—refers everything to God or his saints, and in fact it is to her what Art is to us. But it has warped her—even her. I try to pretend she can see our point of view, but when she says of Ie ne parle pas, “How could you say her big belly? I feel Our Lady would have disliked it so much.” Well—what are you to say to that?

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