I got a letter from Bennett. I had told him it looked like I would not be able to get work. He said to come on to New York. But I cannot pack up Camille now and make a total move. Suppose I could not get anything in New York. We would be even worse off. I have to find something here. Perhaps this will all die down, and someone will take a chance on me. God damn it! I am a capable journalist.

Thursday, May 5, 1938:

Nothing! Nothing!

I got a letter from Bennett. “Be brave, my friend. Come to New York. Your writing has made an impression here. You will definitely, I promise, find work. But if you can’t, I am working, and thus, you are working too.”

I asked Camille about it. She did not hesitate a second. “I can have everything packed in…let me see…four days.”

But I suspect this is just her concept of stoic and unwordly southern womanhood. I do not think she really wants to go. I think she is more afraid than I am, if this is possible.

As much as I hate the idea, we may have to move back to Sutton, back to the Swells and my family and the collecting of rents.

But I’m not defeated yet; perhaps something will open up here.

Wednesday, June 1, 1938:

I had another talk with Camille. She still maintains she would go to New York. “I love you, David. We’ll go. The baby has to go because I go.” She laughed. “And I want to go because you do. If you move back to Sutton, you won’t get over it. It’ll never be the same. So come on now, let’s go to New York. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I do not believe her. She tries so hard to do the right thing, but she does not want to go. I can see it plainly.

I wrote a letter to Bennett telling him I would definitely be moving back to my family.

Tuesday, June 7, 1938:

I received Bennett’s answer: “Now that you have made your decision, I will attempt in every way I know, fair or foul, to make you rededicate yourself and come to New York.”

I am afraid it is no use, Bennett. My rebuttals to you will not be adequate to convince you, or even myself. I am watching a parade and I know I should be marching proudly, but I am shackled to the curb. I have to do what I feel is my first responsibility. There is nothing else I can do.

Wednesday, June 29, 1938:

I received a final long letter from Bennett yesterday, his last attempt to get me to change my mind. It ended: