31 October 1922

La Prieuré, Fontainebleau, Avon

My own Bogey
Ever since my last letter to you I have been so enraged with myself Its so like me. I am ashamed of it. But you who know me will perhaps understand. I always try to go too fast. I always think all can be changed & renewed in the twinkling of an eye. It is most fearfully hard for me, as it is for you, not to be ‘intense'. And whenever I am intense (really this is so) I am a little bit false. Take my last letter & the one before. The tone was all wrong. As to my new truth - oh, darling, I am really ashamed of myself. Its so very wrong. Now I have to go back to the beginning & start again and again tell you that I have been ‘over fanciful' and I seem to have tried to force the strangeness. Do you know what I mean. Let me try now to face facts. Of course it is true that Life here is quite different, but violent changes to ones individuality - of course they do not occur. I have come here for a ‘cure'. I know I shall never grow strong anywhere else in the world except here. This is the place and here at last one is understood entirely, mentally & physically. I could never have regained my health by any other treatment and all my friends accepted me as a frail, half-creature who migrated towards sofas. Oh, my dearest Bogey, just wait and see how you and I will live one day - so happily - so splendidly. [To J. M. Murry, 2 November 1922.]