To August Hofmann
[Berlin] March 10th 15
Suddenly, on impulse, I’m compelled to write you. It’s a quiet evening. I’m alone at home, pacing back and forth, whistling melancholy, bizarre Cakewalk-melodies from Munich to myself. Oh this war!
When will one laugh again! and dance! And hold a delicate, sweet, capricious cadence for worthier of living and dying for than this idiocy, this brutality, this beastly visage of war! . . .
To Tristan Tzara
Vira, July 31st, 1916
Dear Herr Tzara,
Vira-Magadino is more beautiful than Zurich, Dada and all related themata. We are living in a small church next to the Madonna del Sasso, and the desperate church bells of Ticino make terrifying music. One sings “Quanto è bella, quanto è nobile!”, and reads —̶ Dostoyevsky. One preaches to the fish in the Lago Maggiore, and there are a bit too many rocks on the mountains.
You are sent best regards.
To Emmy Hennings
Magadino, Pentecost Sunday 
My beloved Emmylein,
I thank you so very much that I am here. I arrived completely exhausted and feeble. My voice, my eyes, my heart —̶ everything quite weary. But I felt that I will rally quickly. It is certainly so wonderfully peaceful. The room and the entire air smell of roses. . .
. . . I can’t write Tzara yet, and that is certainly bad. But I can’t whip up the strength. I break into a sweat if I think
about the most minor thing that is to be done. I want to write him tomorrow. He must believe me that I endured as long as I possibly could. But lately I couldn’t anymore. I have said it often
enough. It is, surely, not surprising. You certainly have a great deal to do. More than one thinks. I know a thousand little things. But you are much more practical than all of us put together.
And so you will be finished quickly. I want to send the letters for Walden tomorrow. Don’t forget to pack the Cabaret books. . .