Last night I dreamed I was with my brother in Spain, a sort of semi-desert place. He introduced me to an old man who looked like Walter Brennan. He had come to Spain thirty years earlier and had translated a Spanish poet he loved and printed at his own expense 5000 copies. None sold. Since this poet praised cheese, he went into cheese-making business, making a golden-yellow cheese which he gave with each volume that a person bought. He sold about 1000. But that was many years ago and he was almost bankrupt. It seems that the taste for yellow cheese died. So he made a Swiss-colored cheese, a whitish-yellow. And the room we were in had stacks of books against one wall and stacks of cheese--covered with salt crystals--against another. My brother wanted to help the desperate old man so he had printed in Spain a sheet telling the story of the poems and cheese and an address for American distribution for one dollar each, but no cheese since US government would not let his cheese in. I was back in USA writing a check for $2.00 for two copies when the dream ended.