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The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

Wednesday night — November 26, 1919

Wednesday night
November 26, 1919

About the 10 stories. They won't all bear reprinting, Boge. I can't afford to publish my early works yet. If you don't mind I'd rather let them lie and deliver you the new goods in May.

The wind has been joined by the robber cold. Both are in highest spirits. There is a perfect uproar going on page 304 outside. It makes my room feel like a lighthouse. I seem to see you in another light house….

Thursday. Hail, rain, wind, dark. The terra cotta in full blast, smelling dreadful as the plaster bakes dry. No, the point about this climate is its extreme variability of temperature. It's never a whole day the same. That's what puts such a terrific strain on one, I think, and that's what makes it truly preposterous for people who are not as well-covered and as solid as L. M. They may win through. But why have to fight so hard? Why have to use up one's energies in keeping warm? It's so wasteful. The sea sounds like a big old rake. I was awake more then half the night. At one o'clock I called L. M. and she went down and made some tea. In my home I shall always have the things for tea in my room, so that in the middle of the night I can brew a cup. Mr. Salteena's thrill for tea in bed I feel for tea in the middle of the night. Ten years ago I used to have tea and brown bread and butter every morning at half past two. I don't know why it should be such a gay little feast then. I long for somebody to laugh with. I think of such funny little jokes—minute little jokes. Wing would perhaps be the perfect companion of such revels. I see him stuffing his paw into his mouth or the end of his tail so as not to laugh out loud and wake you.

Oh, I hope I get a letter to-day or something. It's the vilest old day. However, I've just got to stick it. There's nothing else to do. God! how lonely I am! You know, I sometimes feel a violent hate of S., E., T., all of them, because they have never suffered what I have had to suffer, and expecially not this. It's just one of the many poisons, I suppose. But to have been alone here—that even you will never know.