Letter, August 1952
Good old Los [Angeles] was all I expected it to be: after six years’ absence I recognized nothing but the thick enervating air. Nothing could have prepared me for the 4,877,309 drab invertebrates from the Middle West that moved zombielike through the fetid streets. How long can this go on? I left within 24 hours vowing to return only as a sight-seer to view the ruins at some undetermined but not too distant date. What I found on getting to Provo was an unanswerable argument for matriarchy: Phyllis had everything running smoothly for the first time in history. I promptly gummed up the works and now everything is back to chaotic normal.