Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from 13 Rusham Road, Balham. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/119
13 Rusham Road
Balham, S. W.
6.xi.08

My dear Gordon, Try to forgive me for
not writing you until it was almost
necessary. Reviewing is thrust upon me,
while work here & living in London &
copying 'The South Country' reduces my
working power so that I don't get any
time. I get cleaned out weekly with
long late hours & look forward eagerly
to my deliverance. Last week end I
walked over to Guthrie's & back & but for
my blisters I enjoyed the walk. The seem to
like their new place but as a matter of fact
it has many serious faults (not simply
from my point of view either) & I should
not be surprised if they had a bad winter
Guthrie is as cheerful as ever but it is a
terribly depressing house with those diseased
children with sores & spots. Mrs Guthrie
is not looking s well as she was & her
nerves are so bad that she is terrified if
left alone after dark. But with it all
I quite see that it is a better household
than mine because they are often happy.
Guthrie says you are probably well
again. I hope so & out of bed too to
see the end of this beautiful season.
The book on Poetry & Nature is off.
Methuen is afraid, & I am casting about
for another subject tho I have no bent to
think of a book yet. I suggest the
Severn & the Welsh Coast (with Guthrie
to illustrate), but Lord! I want to
be quiet, but they won't 'let me be,' as the
late Matthew Arnold's phrase is.
I will try to remember to read
Nozes' "40 Singing Seamen' I have
got it.

My Jefferies is postponed till early next
year, by the way.
How I hate London; no exercise,
no air, & continual bellyache & head
ache & discomfort all over. Also I
waste time seeing people. It is not good
for me to see people as I listen to so
much that I don't understand - politics,
art & so on - & pretend to take
an interest & say (& for the moment
think I mean) foolish things. I have a
feeling of returning with difficulty to
myself after these histrionic bents. People
despise me too -with reservations on
account of any superficial amiability &
profile. When I saw on a
newspaper placard that a Railway Porter
had just had £17000 left him, I was
quite seriously thinking how I should
like to have that much or a little less so
as to be able to stay somewhere alone &
not have to work - in fact I hurried
back to my lodgings with a sort of flushed
expectation of I don't know exactly
what, not £17000 perhaps. I didn't
find anything.
How nice it would be to be dead
if only we could know we were dead. That is what I hate, the not
being able to turn round in the grave & to
say it is over. With me I suppose
it is vanity: I don't want to do so
difficult a thing as dying without any
chance of applause after having done it.
Yours ever
Edward Thomas