T. E. Lawrence to Lionel Curtis

Cranwell
14.XII.25

I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead.

This completes the quotation referred to. It freezes: it snows: it blows. I'm cold as cold. The running rivers of my brain are all a-frozen. Don’t expect coherence till a thaw sets in.

The sweater: the Canadian sweater? I'm almost sure it's there. I can feel it, by hooking a finger between the third and fourth buttons (next above the belt) of my tunic. But this is sense-evidence only. To make sure, I should have to unbutton my tunic, and look: and the wind is howling so terribly about this hangar that I don't dare.

You said something, when you sent the royal thing, about motorcycling, and Canada: but it must have been made for work in the Flights at Cranwell. They offer me huge prices here, for it: packets and packets of woodbines: spare pairs of boots, a 'civie suit'.... I refuse them all, frozenly waving one frozen hand, in icy refusal. Of course I should have written and told you: but… but… but…

It's cold.

Your envelope is perfectly addressed.

T.E.S.