I'm awfully interested in all you tell me about your job. I agree with you that the production of a book page 263 should not assert itself but I think you're rather too hard on yourself when you say it shouldn't be noticeable. True, the writing is the important thing, but I think fine production, as it were, sets the seal upon its importance—and do you think it's too far-fetched to say it's an act of faith on the part of the producer in that he considers it worthy of a ‘setting’ and it's also his expression of delight in honouring it. I suppose if a thing is really good and sound and honest there's no need to call attention to it, no need to praise it: but I like to think that people who are rich in life can afford to praise things—in fact, can't help praising them. I don't think any of us will stop at what is necessary. Take a domestic example. I suppose a baby is the important thing and it's just as happy and content in a strong banana box. But I can't help feeling that if I saw one flying in the direction of the Heron, or on the Heron's back (he looks a safe old bird according to Fergusson) I would make that banana box as marvellous as a banana box could be. Of course, the whole difficulty about noticeable production is that if the idea gets into the minds of wrong workmen, vain workmen, there's no stopping them—and you can't see the great man for the wreaths and banners so to say. But you can't afford to worry about that. To be fantastical, I think a book should look like a herald, the author's herald, and as herald's don't carry trumpets it wouldn't be assertive but just very fine and on the proud side. (I just then had a vision of Wing as a herald, but he would, in defiance of all the laws, have a most awful trumpet to blow in Athenaeum's ear—)

I expect J. has told you about this little house—right in the sun's eye and the sea's eye. It is built on the slope of a wild hill covered with figs, olives and tamarisk trees and a thick small shrubbery, and herbs like lavender and thyme and rosemary. There are very small paths winding up it in all directions: I long to follow them, I shall by next spring. We three could spend a wonderful time in this house. It's a bit fäery—the light trembles on the wall from the water and dances in flecks from the olive page 264 trees until you wonder if you're living in a bubble…. Down below, sheer down there is the sea with a fine flat rock for you to walk out on and dive off. Green sea with blue streaks in it and violet shadows—so clear that from here I can pretty nearly count the starfish star-gazing on the floor of it. (That's nonsense. It's lunch time and I'm getting what J. calls “shiny in the head.”)

I wish though that the things that bite were not so fierce. They are like the dragons my Papa used to draw. Dragons with Seven Bellies—i.e., never satisfied. They must have had pints of me and you can't think I'd be anything but rather inferior government ale, can you?—poor stuff compared to these rich fruity Italians.