The letter, as is the case with all by her father, is long and somewhat convoluted, filled with strikeovers, erasures, and strange paragraphing on the typewriter which as he has often said is his attempt to find a definite and unique style in which he can break out of formal expression and into some apprehension of reality. Much of the letter seems to be the same old stuff: his unemployment has run out but he still does not feel an urgency to find a job, he believes that after fifty-one years he is just beginning to find himself, he has been doing a lot of reading in the Impressionist school over the past few months and does not agree by a longshot that Dadaism is dead but believes that it is merely waiting, albeit somewhat incoherently for a revival … but toward the end of the letter is something interesting, something relatively new to his correspondence and to the best of her ability she pays attention to it while letting the other parts run out and filter past her mind. “What I often felt after we lost your mother,”
