Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Elses Farm, The Weald, Kent. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/39
The Weald
6.viii.05

My dear Gordon
Your letter was very good to have.
I shall not survive my gratitude for it.
I was having 3 days in town
when it came. I returned on Thursday, then had
to work, &, instead of writing to you.
on Saturday noon I started with Freeman (my
neighbor) to walk to Canterbury along the
Pilgrim's Road. We spent Saturday night
sleeping & trying to sleep in the fields,
sheltered by corn sheaves. It was good. But
this morning we had to turn back after going
25 miles because my feet were no use. So
I am back, fretful; & tired, aware that I ought to
be careful - that carefulness is troublesome &
dangerous - & that I shall never be careful enough
don't think you are quite sounds when you [illegible]
not to be self-conscious: nobody could be more
or more conscious of it: & that way will always
lie misery, dissatisfaction, imperfection,
perhaps 'tragedy' or tragic farce rather. Still,
I like every word you say & know it ought to
help me but doubt it will. etc
I meant to see Balines in town &
on Thursday I called on him, but he was flown
to Chelsea & I had not time to follow him in
the rain unprotected.
As far as I know, I have thought
out my relations with Ransome carefully & come

I had called him
Edward the
Confessor
G. B.

to a conclusion pleasing to him & me.
- also the I am the Confessor, I can
never confess everything to one man, even to you -
I find I have unconsciously arranged my confessions
according to the person & so each one of three or
four is frequently surprised and put in a
wrong scent. I fear you are so mistaken by
my fault, got - now attest - I cannot
even try to put you right. But know, that only
a revolution or a catastrophe or an imporable
development can ever make calm or happiness
possible for me. But you need not be afraid of
an abrupt fifth act, because I am
too distracted & undetermined even to do more than
be perplexed in the extreme & in vain.
Meantime, I have got behind with my work
& that troubles me, & I must go.
Goodbye. Every yours
Edward Thomas