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19 July 1922

Hotel Chateau Belle Vue, Sierre, Switzerland

There are certain things in this new book of L[awrence]'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, outspread, 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 predigested 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 "that 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-today - you know, darling, they remind me of the green-fly in roses - they are a kind of blight. [To S.S.Koteliansky, 17 July 1922.]