Thank you for the manuscript. It arrived on Tuesday, in a paper sleeve that smelled faintly of cedar; I read it that night by the south window, and again the next morning over coffee, which is the test I trust most. It holds. The second reading found the same passages I had marked the first time, which means they are not accidents.

I have a small number of editorial notes — not many, and none structural. Most concern the cadence of paragraph endings; one or two ask for a footnote where the argument is currently asking the reader to take you on faith. I will send them in a separate letter, with the marked galley, by the end of the week.

What I want to say in this letter is more particular. The piece on porches is the best thing you have written for us. I do not think you should let it go without a fight when the volume is set, even if the page count argues otherwise. Cut something else if we run long. We will find the room.

On the cover question: I have come around to your view. Champagne over graphite, copper for the rule, your name set small and italic at the foot. Not on the spine — only on the face. The spine should carry the volume number alone. We can sign-off on this when you next visit the studio; I would like you to see the trial page before we commit to the printing.

One last thing, since I have you. The colophon you proposed is too modest. Your essays have done the volume's work; please let the colophon say so plainly. I have suggested a revision in the enclosed proof. If you object to any of it, say so, and we will set it the way you wrote it.

I hope the spring is treating the garden well. Please give my regards to your wife and to the cat, who I am told has taken to sleeping on the page proofs. She has good taste.