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Rh I'm what is called a sensibilitist, Or otherwise an environmentalist. I refuse to adapt myself a mite To any change from hot to cold, from wet To dry, from poor to rich, or back again. I make a virtue of my suffering From nearly everything that goes on round me. In other words, I know wherever I am, Being the creature of literature I am, I shall not lack for pain to keep me awake. Kit Marlowe taught me how to say my prayers: "Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it." Samoa, Russia, Ireland I complain of, No less than England, France and Italy. Because I wrote my novels in New Hampshire Is no proof that I aimed them at New Hampshire.

When I left Massachusetts years ago Between two days, the reason why I sought New Hampshire, not Connecticut, Rhode Island, New York, or Vermont was this: Where I was living then, New Hampshire offered The nearest boundary to escape across. I hadn't an illusion in my hand-bag About the people being better there Than those I left behind. I thought they weren't. I thought they couldn't be. And yet they were. I'd sure had no such friends in Massachusetts As Hall of Windham, Gay of Atkinson, Bartlett of Raymond (now of Colorado), Harris of Derry, and Lynch of Bethlehem.