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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume II

Boxing Day,1922

How is the old Adam revived in you, I wonder? What aspect has he? There is nothing to be done when he rages except to remember that it's bound to be; it's the swing of the pendulum. One's only hope is, when the bout is exhausted, to get back to that you think you really care for, aim for, wish to live by, as soon as possible. It's the intervals of exhaustion that seem to waste so much energy. You see, the question is always: Who am I? and until that is discovered I don't see how one can really direct anything in one's self. Is there a Me? One must be certain of that before one has a real unshakable leg to stand on. And I don't believe for one moment these questions can be settled by the head alone. It is this life of the head, this intellectual life at the expense of all the page 267 rest which has got us into this state. How can it get us out of it? I see no hope of escape except by learning to live in our emotional and instinctive being as well, and to balance all there.

You see, if I were allowed one single cry to God, that cry would be: I want to be Real. Until I am that I don't see why I shouldn't be at the mercy of old Eve in her various manifestations for ever… At this present moment all I know really, really, is that though one thing after another has been taken from me, I am not annihilated, and that I hope—more than hope—believe. It is hard to explain.

I heard from B. yesterday. She gave a very horrid picture of the present S. and his views on life and women. I don't know how much of it is even vaguely true, but it corresponds to S. the Exhibitionist. The pity of it is life is so short, and we waste about nine-tenths of it—simply throw it away. I always feel S. refuses to face the fact of his wastefulness. And sometimes he feels he never will. All will pass like a dream, with mock comforts, mock consolations…