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T. E. Lawrence to E. M. Forster
26. 4. 26
I broke my right arm
and wrist trying to start someone's car. It has been
a source of discomfort since, and is not perfectly cured. In fact it's
twisted a bit. No matter: but it takes away my last hope of being
admitted some day to a beauty chorus.
At last, after weeks, I have found Lucas' letter, somewhat crumpled, for
I carried it about with me for a while. His sentence about 'a
supernatural background' startled me. Perhaps he meant unworldly: or
unearthly. Surely not supernatural? I do not believe in that. There is
no more rational being than myself alive. It's excess of reason which
makes me seem mad to people. Otherwise I've now digested the letter, and
can read it coldly, unblushingly. Odd that my confidence in my critical
sense should let me condemn as rotten what so many excellent artists
praise. I may see Lucas on May 9: and will then try to pin him down to
particularities.
Your letter after Lincoln stares me reproachfully in the face. What can
I say or do? I have a shell on me like a crab's: so I can't show what I
think. It's my opinion that you will yet write (or have written and not
yet shown) something very big: bigger than the Passage, which
deliberately was bigger than any of the previous novels. Greatness lies
in the eye that contemplates not in the subject: and your eye has grown
very slowly. All the more lasting, thereby. Of course it's a bore being
famous. You have cracked the crib, and the swag isn't any longer up to
your standard. Consequently you feel empty, for the while: as if the
profession was exhausted. But it isn't. Just wait a bit. Ten more years
if necessary. You aren't wasting your time: everybody likes seeing you.
Your present emotions span themselves into articles for the Labour
Leader. Very well. There are sparks and flames:
affairs of degree. Yours are the most sporting and fiery sparks. They are
so good that someone will some day collect a shower of them. You needn't
do that. Let the Passage represent you for the moment.
Do you remember little Smith, the bearded bookseller of Lincoln? He
asked who you were. I told him, feeling pretty pleased
with myself. He ordered a dozen assorted E.M.F's. (5/- brand) on the
strength of your visit. Sold them. Ordered 20. Is selling them. I told
him The Omnibus was a book. He ordered two. A Yank came in: guessed he
wanted something to read. Saw The Omnibus. Said 'That’s the best
set of short stories ever printed'
and took the two.
I don't endorse the Y's opinion. V.G. yes... but the best? No, I don't
agree. However my critical judgement, though dogmatic and dictatorial, is
(according to Lucas) bad. Hoots. I congratulate you, anyway.
This letter must stop. Pen-holding is a small scale business,
and makes my
wrist ache: and there are many letters to write.
Writing is a mean snivelling business. It fails to convey anything
bigger than its own scrawling miserable pot-hooks.
Hoots.
T.E.
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