I wondered, as I thought about this, if in writing, art, or music, a too subjective approach might detract from truly experiencing what the artist is trying to express. Explanations about art, I feel, are generally useless. Don't you agree? At any rate, listening is better than not listening; it revives the spirit, something sorely needed these days. Music was invariably, for me, hand in hand with my work, was part of it, not merely background. Art, from as long ago as I can remember, was viewed as an instinctive thing, and I have shunned excessive analysis. It is not definable entity, coming from the heart, or it is nothing. I think one gets mixed up every time defining art; it is in the mind's eye; and like the richest gem, is liable to be found anywhere. When I was a student, we visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was struck by my attraction to some pictures and my dislike of others; obviously, I concluded, art was not monolithic, but varied, many things, different to each of us. Well, Jean, it was not my intention to get into something like this; it just comes out; I can't help it. This shows you where my mind is, far away from this place, I assure you.

Perhaps, the mind reverts in an effort to fend off the overwhelming sense of loneliness which overcomes you from time to time. The drawing away from these things by the pressures of military routines is a relentless process. The time of my life is consumed, pre-empted by circumstances; you understand this, but stand helplessly by as it happens. I believe the biggest loss is not sharing hopes with someone close; here, there is no contact with anyone; you are on your own, and my letters to you are the only connection with the outside world. This is in my mind every day; a marginal thing, pushed aside as problems develop, as they invariably do. The ache, which you hope will lessen with the passage of time, instead worsens. The rightness of what we do, in principle, doesn't help matters. Thinking about it only compounds the difficulties, so it makes more sense not to try to right the situation this way. What we have at the moment is an idea, but, by God, that is something!

I try to hasten the passage of time, yet it is relentless, hanging still, immovable, and I am trapped by it, becoming slower as days, months, and years go by. At times you pray for something to move, anything, but all is still, like one of those scenes in the museum, where people and objects are frozen in place. Fortunately, things are so active here, that you cannot think within yourself for very long, but are carried away by the frenetic nature of the war effort. I apologize, love, for these letters spelling out my problems, without considering yours, which are just as nagging. It seems, getting away from the personal side of the war, that the allied cause has its usual number of defeats, and still retreats on every front. I clipped an article from a "London Illustrated" magazine I found in the British Canteen which took an optimistic viewpoint of the war, showing the production statistics (they are awesome) and stating that with the bombing acceleration on German industry, there was no way the Germans would ultimately win the victory. The reason I clipped it out was because it was the only thing I've read, and that includes the Time's Review of the News, which strikes a positive note. Hurrah for that! I've affixed it to the lid of my locker where I can read it once in a while. Napoleon said: "Defeat in battle was not as important as winning the war." The implication is the final battle is the decisive one; I'll buy that. Incidentally, what is the press saying at home? I get the Review, but would be interested in what the other papers have to say, especially, the Herald Tribune, the Journal American, or the Daily News.

Do you remember in Washington, I said the first priority would be to get a piano? Well, Jean, it still remains that way. I fantasize about having the chance to sit down and practice on one which belongs to us, in our own house! Wouldn't that be just great? Wherever I go in the military, I look in the day rooms, places on the Post where a soldier can read, write letters, get a coke, because, sometimes, there is an old upright someone has given to the army. On several occasions, in the States, when I have sat down, picked at the keys, the other guys sitting around make it obvious they don't appreciate me disturbing the peace. So I generally don't indulge myself if other men are present, and, even wait around until the place is empty. The other day at the British Canteen (it was on Saturday pass), I was tempted as there was some sheet music of traditional tunes, but lost courage, when one of the young English girls, seeing me eyeing the piano, encouraged me to play. If they only knew how badly I play! At least I was able to walk away leaving the impression I am a virtuoso! I felt a little guilty about that!

Lindsay is a rough and ready philosopher who sees in the now, the present, his opportunity to drink of the well of life, while I, in contrast, dwell a heck of a lot on the delicious pleasure of the past, even though I am young in years. It is written into my character; the pleasures of learning to play their role; it is not, either the learning you associate with the normal methods, school systems, etc. (that is different), but the pure delight of going at it myself, piece by piece, and having my pleasure in that way, as though, you might say, I partake of a delicious drink slowly so I might enjoy it all the more.

You and I love, I was thinking, in the same way, play minor roles in this bit of history, but no doubt each little part of the big effort plays its role. I don't feel, nor do you, I expect, feel you are making a contribution. Nevertheless, it is my opinion, backed, if I may modestly put it that way, by President Roosevelt, who in one of his regular radio colloquies (I call them that), made a point of saying the war was "a struggle between people believing in different political ideas, and that each individual counted." The talking, reprinted verbatim, in the Time Review of the News, was a small gem of a critical political viewpoint, which, I feel is at the crux of the American philosophy, of human rights, freedoms guaranteed by constitutional law. Naturally, most soldiers are not thinking this out, nor are they, in their everyday discharge of duty, working overtly toward that end. But look, it is there! Make no mistake about it. I mentioned once before, I think, in a previously letter, love, that the men of the ranks do not talk about such matters, but most have a clear idea of what this particular conflict is all about.

Incidentally, Jean, I have not heard from mother for a month or so, and I am concerned, because of this, that things do not go well. Is my father progressing in his recovery? What, if any, is the prognosis? What is the nature of his problem? No one has clarified this to me, and I feel rather mystified by that because in most in most illnesses, this is usually done at the outset so the treatment can be given. I would appreciate it if you could get the low-down for me, the truth, for God's sake, that you do not withhold any information so as not to alarm me. Events in my life have built up so rapidly, hardly any of them something to get enthusiastic about, that another would not affect me seriously. If there is anything that disturbs me, it is hiding the truth, which, in the long run, comes out anyway, and then, it is worse. A letter bearing on my father's condition would be welcome, I would know where I stand, and what, if anything, I could do. In respect to such family problems, the army has a policy, if it is at all possible, of allowing leave. I am not assuming by this the worst scenario, but merely suggesting it is a possible course in the future. Life, as I have said before, seems relentless in its pressures, and at times, they seem to come from all directions. I said to Ficini, whose mother was ailing too, that the circle of trouble seemed endless. He is more upbeat, Jean, than I and tossed it off with a shake of his head. "What I cannot control doesn't worry me; why should it?" Why can't I be like this? I suppose its just not my nature. I have the feeling, almost invariably, that the future is full of dark shadows, yet, I add, hastily, that this sensitivity does not preclude my desire to know what is going on back home. It may not be easy for you to obtain the facts, but please try. I will be grateful for that.

Last week in Port of Spain, in Queen's Park, to be exact, I stood with a bunch of Trinidadians in a small area down from the Queen's Park Hotel, and listened to some impassioned speech making. It was a place frequented by wild-eyed radicals and poets, something, I'd say like Hyde's Park in London. I'd had two drinks at the Hotel, was feeling rather light-headed, and I enjoyed the give and take of the speakers, mostly dark-skinned fellows, with flashing white teeth. They waved their arms wildly, pointed, referred to God frequently, and jumped up and down miraculously without falling off! Curiously, the talk was not of revolution, but of God, Christianity, spiritualism, anything, and many of them clutched a Bible in their hands, waving it at the spectators, like myself. In the background, colored nannies of English and Dutch children wheeled their perambulators, large-wheeled, almost Victorian-looking carriages, dressed like nurses, with folded, winged hats, and long skirts all blue and white. It seems like a wild dream, I am the stranger, intruding on the scene. The colorful nature of the preserve leaves a vivid impression, that of movement, too, it seems alive with humanity as well as the other manifestations of life.

I hear one speaker above the others; this is often the case; the loudest dominates, and most are hoarse from shouting. These people had dreams, they too, like myself, saw beyond what existed, and most of them spoke of having a life someday which offered more than a bare subsistence. It was mysterious, I thought, this human aspiration, the desire to change the nature of things; I reflected, on my own position, on my inability to concentrate effectively, the disciplines slowly slipping away. There was always something barring my way; it wasn't only my will to do it. Life had wound its own spring; it could not be altered, one merely struggled, as I did, but the attempt fell short. My shortcomings were personal; life imposed, it took away. I saw myself as hiding behind excuses. I am sure, love, if you were here you'd see the impossibility of doing anything but riding the process; it carries you, it remains, no matter what your inclination, the paramount aspect.

The poets of Queen's Park were a special breed; captivating their audience, which swayed back and forth with the performance, shouting, "Yes, sure," again and again.

Yankee soldiers, khaki clad,
Come over the sea to Trinidad,
Their pockets are full of money,
They call all the local girls "honey,"
Coca-Cola is their favorite drink.
It, with rum, gets them in the clink!
They will kill that devil, Hitler,
We will have peace again here.

Or

Pick on me your eyes bright!
Oh my, you are such a sight!
I danced with you till dawn,
When both of us began to yawn.

The poetry had the peculiar rhythm of the Trinidad colloquial dialogue, full of musical tones, high phrasing, and particular emphasis on certain words, a singsong rocking quality which was unmistakably their own. This is in such contrast to the barracks experience, a never-ending series of carnival acts. There is an ego-strain here; it is measured, I believe, by noise decibels. When I am in the process of writing, concentration becomes on effort. You try to shut the doors, but finally, give it up as impossible. Those who make the most of their proclivity for loudness seem to resent those who remain aloof from it. Even at night, the long nights I stay awake thinking of my life, the rousing snores are enough to shake the roof. My head sometimes aches. It cannot resist the constant intrusion. Privacy, for me, is what makes life tolerable. To turn over in my head, lines of poetry, to think of green pastures rather than the desert which stretches around me. One, finally, gets buried. "What the hell," you swear, "what is the use of living on memories?" The vision of life is changed; the early idealism, naivete, is replaced by a growing cynicism. I had a wild dream the other night that we were, you and I, imagine, in a colony of ants, programmed to perform. Well, if you study, love, the events of our lives these past few years, it is not far-fetched, at that! Who was that general, a Roman, I think, who said: "I want soldiers who fight, not think." Augustus, in his memoirs, made a similar observation. I could take it a step further by saying: Maybe it is better if a soldier exists in body rather than spirit, leaving that idealized image of life for the philosophers at home. Lately, I have acquired the general habit, around here, of bedding down at every opportunity, which are not many. You wouldn't believe it, but I have developed the capacity to snooze instantly, the moment I hit the pillow! I admit, when mentally and physically you are being pushed to the limit, this is comparatively easy. Even on a break in our work on the west of the island, I dozed off, and had to be awakened by the Lieutenant, much to my chagrin. Sleep becomes a drug, an escape, a world apart from the one we live in. Sergeant Lindsay, bless his heart, when we picked up some material at Port of Spain, gave us an extra hour break at noon when it was blazing hot. We parked the convoy along a narrow by-road just before entering the dock are, and we all enjoyed the siesta. I apologize for only two short letters to you this week, which is the reason I have been working on this for 3 or 4 days. Yesterday, they gave me a day off duty, because I had cut myself on my left hand, nothing too serious, with a machete when we worked on an artillery emplacement northeast of here. We were clearing palm fronds to give the pieces a full range of fire out to sea, which constituted about 180 degrees. Anyway, no matter which way things go militarily here, the mind continues to shrink, at least, Jean, that is the feeling I get. You have that telltale, sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach that the world is collapsing around you, your world, that is. By God, there I go again! I've been talking with a guy named Lambert lately; he is from Wisconsin, a very solid type. He noticed, right away my tendency toward despondency in my conversations. He advised me rightly, I believe, that brooding over matters merely made them worse. "I'm just riding this out to get home," he said softly. "I try to keep my eye on getting home, that, by all odds, is the important thing." And so that is the way it goes; I am a day-to-day soldier in a count-down. I compared myself to the social condition of impoverishment; a social scientist wrote that art, even thought, is difficult under deprived conditions, and so it is. The same fellow wrote that affluence is the key to the creative possibilities. What gets me every time, is self-pity. I vow to correct that, but as you know, love, my vows are shot full of holes. I return every time to it; I put aside the fact of millions being disrupted. When I think of not being able to write to you, I get into a panic; I have said it before, and I say it again, I would like to feel nothing, know nothing, and have nothing, just drift aimlessly among the stars. Sergeant Lindsay, who is hardly a confidant on such matters, says getting drunk once in a while clears his mind. I doubt if such a measure would work for me. I've taken to walks in the evening around the Post; that clears my head, and I am enchanted by the beauty of the tropical night. The blinking red and green lights of the aircraft coming in and going out fill the sky, and the shafts of light from beacons mark white lines, straight as an arrow, across the horizon, moving back and forth, and occasionally, picking out a plane in flight. On these perambulations, my mind becomes calmer, the demons retreat, and I can see everything in a more positive way.