More than any writer I’ve known, Clifford needed to be needed to write. He was like a high-powered automobile with an uncertain self-starter; our need turned him on. Luther and I began to hound him to write us a play, and we jibed at Harold, who, despite his sorry state at Wanger’s, seemed comfortable since he was close to Stella and eating in expensive restaurants where headwaiters greeted him by name. I remember observing with puritanical disapproval that Harold had grown plump and taken to flashy neckties. In prosperity, I concluded, this is not the same man. I recall another conclusion I reached, that idealism is possible only in conditions of penury; it is a unique man, I made up my mind, who can sustain the fever of his dreams when he has money to eat regularly. Perhaps this was a hangover from my old Communist-days motto: “Only trust the working class.” The main objective I had during those weeks was to return Harold to hard times so he could again be his true self.