Other formats

    TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The Letters of Katherine Mansfield: Volume I

Sunday evening — November 30, 1919

page 308
Sunday evening
November 30, 1919

Weather report: Dead calm. Warm. Some sun. Earthquaky.

Yes, the Fakeists quite overcome me. That Observer, had, par exemple, a review of L—–. If you read L—–! Humbug—deplorable humbug—rant—rubbish—tinpot provincial hysterics. But they couldn't have said more if C. D. had written The Tempest. It makes me feel quite queer sometimes when I read that Saint's Progress is one of the great masterpieces of all time, and yet I never feel for an instant I'm not right. There can't be any doubt about such rot as L—–and the Times raved! Perhaps when 1,200,000 people a year buy Georgian Poetry we shall be burned together.

It's getting dusky. The house is full of small shadows. I can hear the kettle having its lid taken off and then it's filled and now it's on the fire again—all this very distinct. It's sunset. The windows are shut, the sea is pale. Oh, how dare I lean on you as I do? Do you feel I'm a weight? I want to lean so light, so light, and then suddenly I get heavy and ask to be carried. You ought not to have chosen me to travel with. Ah, I don't agree with that. We made the right choice, the marvellously right choice at any rate. W'eve done all we could. It's only the …Boss Omnipotent who's been so horrid.