Dear Mr. Cooney,
I have a disquieting letter from my agent
in N.Y., Miss Marion Saunders. She tells
me that she is unable to get any response to
her letters, and worse, cannot get back
from you the manuscripts which she gave
you. Now, my dear Cooney, I do hope
you will not be fucking me up. If the
Phoenix has died a still-birth please don't
take it out on a poor author. Have the
decency, I beg you, either to reassure her
as to your intentions, or mail her back the
manuscripts in question. I had a choice of
placing my things in different quarters,
and I told her to give you the preference.
So there you are.
Sincerely yours,
Henry Miller
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