There are two piles on my desk. One of them consists of the wasted labours of a screaming horde of brats and on the other sits a lone manuscript. The first pile wallows in depravity, irritates, irks and smells pretty bad by the end of the day and yet the lone manuscript is not even fit to sit atop it’s stinking brethren. Yours is a work so foul it needs a pile of it’s own, lest it corrupt and debase or knock the pride of the standard rubbish. It must be isolated and destroyed. I will be returning the others with a few kind words, but fear arrest for the crime of even placing an enveloped copy of your words in the hands of another human being. Haven’t the post office suffered enough?