24 June 1922

Hotel d'Angleterre, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

The truth is I have been on the pen point of writing to you for weeks and weeks but always Paris - horrid Paris - snatched my pen away. And during the latter part of the time I spent nearly every afternoon in a tight, bony dentist's chair while a dreadfully callous American gentleman with an electric light on his forehead explored the root canals or angled with devilish patience for the lurking nerves. Sometimes, at black moments, I think that when I die I shall go to the DENTISTS . . .
   I am glad you did not come to Paris after all; we should not have been able to talk. Its too distracting. It is like your "twelve complete teas ices and all" all the time. One is either eating them or watching other people eat them, or seeing them swept away or hearing the jingle of their approach, or waiting for them, or paying for them, or trying to get out of them (hardest of all). Here, its ever so much better. If on your walk today you pass one of those signs with a blameless hand pointing to the Hotel d'Angleterre, please follow. The cherries are just ripe; they are cutting the hay. But there are English delights, too. Our speciality is the forest a deux pas, threaded with little green paths and hoarse quick little streams. [To William Gerhardi, 14 June 1922.]