I want to talk to you for hours about—Aaron's Rod, for instance. Have you read it? There are certain things in this new book of L.'s that I do not like. But they are not important or really part of it. They are trivial, encrusted, they cling to it as snails cling to the underside of a leaf. But apart from them there is the leaf, is the tree, firmly planted, deep thrusting, outspreading, growing grandly, alive in every twig. It is a living book; it is warm, it breathes. And it is written by a living man, with conviction. Oh, Koteliansky, what a relief it is to turn away from these little pre-digested books written by authors who have nothing to say! It is like walking by the sea at high tide eating a crust of bread and looking over the water. I am so sick of all this modern seeking which ends in seeking. Seek by all means, but the text goes on “and ye shall find.” And although, of course, there can be no ultimate finding, there is a kind of finding by the way which is enough, is sufficient. But these seekers in the looking glass, these half-female, frightened writers-of-to-day—You know, they remind me of the greenfly in roses—they are a kind of blight.

I do not want to be hard. I hope to God I am not unsympathetic. But it seems to me there comes a time in life when one must realise one is grown-up—a man. And when it is no longer decent to go on probing and probing. Life is so short. The world is rich. There are so many adventures possible. Why do we not gather our strength together and live? It all comes to much the same page 230 thing. In youth most of us are, for various reasons, slaves. And then, when we are able to throw off our chains, we prefer to keep them. Freedom is dangerous, is frightening.

If only I can be good enough writer to strike a blow for freedom! It is the one axe I want to grind. Be free— and you can afford to give yourself to life! Even to believe in life.

I do not go all the way with Lawrence. His ideas of sex mean nothing to me. But I feel nearer L. than anyone else. All these last months I have thought as he does about many things.

Does this sound nonsense to you? Laugh at me if you like or scold me. But remember what a disadvantage it is having to write such things. If we were talking one could say it all in a few words. It is so hard not to dress one's ideas up in their Sunday clothes and make them look all stiff and shining in a letter. My ideas look awful in their best dresses.

(Now I have made myself a glass of tea. Every time I drop a piece of lemon into a glass of tea I say ‘Koteliansky.’ Perhaps it is a kind of grace.)

I went for such a lovely drive to-day behind a very intelligent horse who listened to every word the driver and I said and heartily agreed. One could tell from his ears that he was even extremely interested in the conversation. They are thinning the vines for the last time before harvest. One can almost smell the grapes. And in the orchards apples are reddening; it is going to be a wonderful year for pears.

But one could write about the drive for as many pages as there are in Ulysses.

It is late. I must go to bed. Now the train going to Italy has flashed past. Now it is silent again except for the old toad who goes Ka-Ka-Ka-Ka—laying down the law.