To George and Rosamond Sturgis
Hotel Bristol
Rome. Christmas, 1935
Since yesterday I am living in a garden of white roses and violets—also a pot of azalias from my landlord who is a member of Parlaiment and head of the Fascist organization of hotel-keepers—and I am feeling that a sort of Santayana boom is going on in various quarters at once. Scrutiny, an ultra-critical intellectualist quarterly published at Cambridge (in England) has suddenly taken me up: I have written (feeling very lively during my illness) an article for their next issue, also one for the American Mercury; and the Scrutiny people, the editor and his wife, are going to edit a book of my collected literary criticisms. The novel, except for the review I sent you, has hardly been squarely faced: that may come later; but the critics seem to be favourable, without daring to commit themselves to any judgement or even analysis. I think perhaps the book in length and in subject is rather too much for them. You will see, and hear, what people will say in America. I don’t want to bother: what is done is done, and I am going on, while life lasts, with other matters.
The political situation, though dangerous, is exciting and helps to keep one young, at least in Italy. Life was never pleasanter here, at least for me, than it is now, and I admire the Italians in their courage, as I did the English during the war. I don’t so much admire them now. They are a nice people, but their minds are silly. Phrases and crazes completely take them in.
From The Letters of George Santayana: Book Five, 1933-1936. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003.
Location of manuscript: The Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge MA.