I have sat down to work almost every morning, but have practically accomplished nothing, and the article on Dewey is still in an amorphous state. It seems to me as if perhaps my faculties were waning, and that I ought not to write any more philosophy.
The weather has been cool, with some rain, and as this is a house all in pieces, with an open courtyard to cross and all degrees of exposure to sun, damp, draughts, and close air, I have caught a cold which has had the usual sequel of a bronchial cough. Being armed with Experience and all the requisite medicines, I have kept it down within moderate limits, and it is now almost in abeyance, but there is no security against a recrudescence so long as I am not absolutely free to avoid occasions that may aggravate it. Nevertheless this time, I don’t sing “If ever, ever, ever” and fully expect to return to Avila before long, perhaps for a long residence, if my sisters should be living by themselves in their own house.
From The Letters of George Santayana: Book Three, 1921-1927. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2002.
Location of manuscript: Rockefeller Archive Center, Sleepy Hollow NY