29 October 1922

La Prieuré, Fontainebleau, Avon

Darling Bogey,
Forgive me if I don't write often just now. I am so glad you are happy. I am happy, too. And our happiness does not depend on letters. I feel certain we shall move towards each other. But we shall do it in our several ways. If I write at present I ‘falsify' my position and I don't in any way help yours. It's absurd to give you the news here. News there is none, that can be so expressed. As to the people I have known I know nothing of them and they are out of sight just now. If I am sincere I can only say we live here - every moment of the day seems full of life. And yet I feel I can't enter into it as I shall be able to; I am only on the fringe. But write about it I can't.
There is always this danger of deceiving oneself I feel it, too. I only begin to get rid of it by trying and trying to relax - to give way. Here one learns how to do it. Life never would have taught me.
But I am sure you will understand why it is so hard to write. We don't move in our letters. We say the same things over and over. As I tried to explain I'm in such a state of transition. I could not if I would get back to the old life and I can't deal with the new. But anxiety I never feel. Perhaps I shall; I cannot tell. But I am so busy and so many people are here - so much is happening.   [To J. M. Murry, 27 October 1922.]