7 Mar
7 Mar
7 March 1920
My darling Bogey
After two days and nights of misery trying to make bricks out of straw I was forced to give up. I cant write on novels unless I can have some novels to write on. You see I have no intellectual stimulus here & my nerves are still so overstrained that they just fail me.
I am also exceedingly worried about you. Except for that hurried note in reply to my important letter you have not referred to it: you have not talked it out at all. I tried my very best darling to make you realise how deeply I felt it for you but I am afraid I did not succeed at all. But try not to forget that we are all in all to each other and that you when you ‘confess you are selfish' and talk of the no compensations in London you are saying things which I not only know just as deeply just as finely as you - we have talked of them all in the deepest intimacy - but you hurt my love in speaking as though I were a stranger. Must you? Try not to! It is like your other letter saying: ‘My days are very laborious & I am none too pleased with Life.' Can't you feel how these words strike another? Oh so strangely and sadly, dearest. [To J.M. Murry in Collected Letters]