I-write letters which convey my feelings so ill I ought to be stopped. God in his infinite wisdom ought to touch my pen with wings and make it to fly hence from me for Ever. He ought with his Awful Breath to breathe upon the ink so that it catches on fire and is consumed utterly.

I've a review to write. We shall keep our big talk until the end of Avrilo when you must come (will you?) and spend the day and bring your slippers in a satin bag as one used to when an infant and ‘invited out.’ … But why can't I give you—send you for a present—this day like a pearl? There's no sun; the sky is folded, the sea moves and that is all. It is so still, the air is so gentle that every tiny flower seems to be a world unto itself. I am sitting at the window and below a silent, silver coloured cat is moving through a jungle of freezias. “There by the grace of God, goes K. M. “you know.

Don't feel bitter! We must not. Do let us ignore the people who aren't real and live deeply, the little time we have here. It really does seem that the world has reached a pitch of degradation that never could have been imagined—but we know it—we are not deceived. And the fact of knowing it and having suffered, each in our own way, cannot make life—the life of the universe— what we mean when we stand looking up at the stars— page 23 or lie watching the ladybird in the grass—or feel—talking to one we love—less marvellous. I think that we—our generation—ought to live in the consciousness of this huge, solemn, exciting, mysterious background. It's our religion, our faith. Little creatures that we are, we have our gesture to make which has its place in the scheme of things. We must find what it is and make it—offer up ourselves as a sacrifice. You as a painter and me as a writer. What is it that urges us? Why do you feel that you must make your discovery and that I must make mine? That first because we are artists and the only free people we are obedient to some law? There's the mystery! And we shall never solve it—we only know a little more about it by the time we die and that's all—and it's enough.

But just because we do feel this we can't afford to be bitter and, oh, we mustn't let the wrong people into our Holy of Holies.

Don't think I am become an elderly fogey, I believe like anything in happiness and being gay and laughing but I am sure one can't afford to be less than one's deepest self always. That's all I mean by renewing oneself—renewing one's vows in the contemplation of all this burning beauty, We belong to the Order of Artists and it's a strict order but if we keep together and live together in love and harmony we'll help each other. Oh, I worship life. I fall on my knees before Love and Beauty. If I can only make myself worthy…