I can't tell you what pleasure it brought me today to receive Peterman's translation of Hautbrow's "Classifications" in the morning post. Things are dreadfully uninspiring around here, and I was in a terrific funk about it when your book came and instantly cleared the sky of dark clouds. The zombies still proliferate the streets, particularly on the weekends since, though they are quite beyond their former selves, the creatures seem not to have forgotten their routines. I dread to tell you that some of them appear to have found occupations for themselves in the service of the arts, to add more horror to the plague. Just last night, Maurice and I went to a zombie revue at the Royal. Some enterprising soul had rounded a quartet of them to sing and beat on things they brought with them from the street. They moaned in harmony and slowly drummed rhythms that, though off from each other, actually sounded something like polyrhythms, albeit every tune was a shuffle. All went well with the show, to be gracious, until a lady in the front row, overdressed and crowned with purple feathers, startled one of the freaks and he bit the ringmaster. Incorrigible Maurice was inspired, nonetheless, and he found an old zombie with dentures to come back to his studio and paint. Need I say that the resulting canvases fit neatly into the department of abstract expressionism? You can be assured that I scolded our dear companion for his transgression. I called the work derivative, just to annoy him, and pointed out that he was simply playing off the elephant paintings we saw in the colonies last summer. He moped and then set the zombie free, and hid in his studio for two whole days and nights, to excellent results. I have now seen his old prodigy corralled in Mrs. Cooper's garden, I suppose scaring off birds from the vegetable crop, which seems a fine vocation for the poor old corpse--the zombie, I mean; Mrs. Cooper is in fine health.
As always, with affection,
