30 Dec 1921

30 December 1921

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

   I should like to have friends, I confess. I do not suppose I ever shall. But there have been moments when I have realised what friendship might be. Rare moments, but never forgotten. I remember once talking it over with Lawrence and he said "We must swear a solemn pact of friendship. Friendship is as binding, as solemn as marriage. We take each other for life, through everything - for ever. But it is not enough to say we will do it. We must swear." At the time I was impatient with him. I thought it extravagant - fanatic. But when one considers what this world is like I understand perfectly why L. (especially being L.) made such claims . . . I think, myself it is Pride which makes friendship most difficult. To submit, to bow down to the other is not easy, but it must be done if one is to really understand the being of the other. Friendship isn't merging. One doesn't thereupon become a shadow & one remain a substance. Yes, it is terribly solemn - frightening, even.
   Please do not think I am all for Joyce. I am not. In the past I was unfair to him and to atone for my stupidity I want to be fairer now than I really feel . . . I agree that it is not all art. I would go further. Little , to me, is art at all. Its a kind of stage on the way to being art. But the act of projection has not been made. Joyce remains entangled in it, in a bad sense, except at rare moments. There is, to me, the great distinction between him and Proust. (Take Swann with Odette for instance). Or take Richard in Elinor Colhouse . . . [To Sydney Schiff, 31 December 1921.]

   You know Richard I feel this next year 1922 is going to be a good one. Better than the ones that went before. There is a kind of stirring when one thinks of it, the feeling that one has on a late March night when the wind is west. Does that seem nonsense to you? I want it to be good for all of us, of course, so that this time next year here we are - rich in happiness, fat in blessings. Jack shall have a crown, you a small sceptre. Whats left for me? There is sure to be something small going. Happy Xmas, dear old Boy. A Happy New Year. With much love from
                Katherine.  [To Richard Murry, c. 26 December 1921.]