Thank you for writing me about Gatsby. I especially appreciate your letter because women， and even intelligent women， haven't generally cared much for it. They do not like women to be presented as emotionally passive as a matter of fact I think most women are， that their minds are taken up with a sort of second-rate and unessential book-keeping which their apologists call "practicality" —like the French， they are centime savers in the business of magic. (You see I am a Schopenhauerian， not a Shavian. )
You are thrilled by New York. I doubt you will be after five more years when you are more fully nourished from within. I carry the place around the world in my heart but sometimes I try to shake it off in my dreams. America's greatest promise is that something is going to happen， and after a while you get tired of waiting because nothing happens to people except that they grow old， and nothing happens to American art because America is the story of the moon that never rose. Nor does the "minute itself" ever come to life either， the minute not of unrest and hope but of a glowing peace， such as when the moon rose that night on Gerald and Sara's garden and you said you were happy to be there. No one ever makes things in America with that vast， magnificent， cynical disillusion with which Gerald and Sara make things like their parties.
(They were here， last week， and we spent six or seven happy days together.)
My new novel is marvelous. I'm in the first chapter. You may recognize certain things and people in it.
The young people in America are brilliant with second-hand sophistication inherited from their betters of the war generation who to some extent worked things out for themselves. They are brave， shallow， cynical， impatient， turbulent and empty. I like them not. The "fresh， strong river of America" ！ My God， Marya， where are your eyes， or are they too fresh and strong to see anything but their own color and contour in the glass？ America is so decadent that its brilliant children are damned almost before they are born. Can you name a single American artist except James and Whistler (who lived in England) who didn't die of drink？ If it is fresh and strong to be unable to endure or tolerate things as they are， to shut your eyes or to distort and lie， then you're fight， Marya Mannes， and no one has ever so misinterpreted the flowers of civilization， the Greek or Gallic idea， as