7 March 1922

Victoria Palace Hotel, Paris

It's a joy to know that The Garden Party has given you pleasure and especially that you like my poor old girls, the ‘Daughters'. I shall never forget lying on that wretched little sofa in Mentone writing that story. I couldn't stop. I wrote it all day and on my way back to bed sat down on the stairs and began scribbling the bit about the meringues.
  But your beautiful letter is too generous. I can't pretend praise isn't awfully nice! And especially as I have not heard one word from anyone whom I know personally since the book appeared. Reviews there have been and a few notes from strangers. But that's not at all the same. I didn't expect to hear and yet my ‘subconscious mind' has been intensely interested in whether there are any letters or not! I don't think it's bad pride that makes one feel like that. It's the "You feel that too? You know what I was trying to say," feeling which will be with me while life lasts. Or so I feel. I treasure your letter, even though my Garden Party doesn't deserve it.
  Brett sent me a couple of pages from Vogue with reproductions of Gertler's paintings.
  I cannot say what is happening. I believe - just blindly believe. After all illness is so utterly mysterious that I don't see why one shouldn't recover as mysteriously. I have a sneaking feeling all the time that Coué is really the man and Coue would only charge 3d where this man squeezes three hundred francs a time out of me. Happily I have saved £100 so I can pay. But if it is all my eye at the end I shall look awfully silly and dear knows what will happen. But anything, anything to be out of the trap - to escape, to be free. [To Ottoline Morrell, 4 March 1922.]

If this treatment is a success we shall spend the summer in Germany, in some small place. Richard I couldn't live in a city again, or I feel I could not. There seems no point in it. As for meeting people and so on Id rather see them just now and again, rarely, in intervals of work. Parties, and literary society - I flee from the very idea. And it seems to me one cant write anything worth the name unless one lives - really lives. Talk and all that kind of thing is a kind of frittering away. Perhaps that is old age. But the whole secret of doing anything is to gather oneself together and to live in a way that makes that as easy as it can be made. I don't see how it is to be done without solitude and a simple way of living. Do you agree? Tell me if you think its the beginning of my grey hairs.
   Jack is very well. I think the change is really deep in Jack since he left London. He really is happier. If you come over I like to think of you both trundling off to look at pictures together.
   I ought not to be writing this letter. I have a brain like a sawdust this afternoon. But I wanted to just greet you - just wave as you go on your way. Give my love to Mother. Forgive my dullness.
   I press your hand
                Katherine.  [To Richard Murry, 3 March 1922.]