Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Elses Farm, The Weald, Kent. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/38
The Weald
24.vii.05

My dear Gordon,
Helen has just gone away for
two or three days with Merfyn and left me
with Bronwen & myself. I have lately
been more miserable than ever in the
intervals of entertaining numerous acquaintances
& friends. In one month we have had
here Irene, my father & mother,
Mary, Jesse Berridge, Duncan Williams,
Tom Clayton, Dalmon, & my grandmother.
And now I have no money in the bank, and
I have laudenum inside me, and it is a fine
sad evening, and I can no longer read a
German on 'The Development of the Feeling
for Nature' & a Frenchman on Charles
Lamb.
If only somebody who wanted
to, would look after me - somebody
strong (not too tender). For I am sure I
get worse & worse (N. B. I haven't taken
opium for several months until today) &
no week, - hardly a day, - passes
without my thinking that I must soon cease
to try to work & live. But I am so irritable
& restless that even if I go so far as to resolve

not to work, in a few hours out of sheer
ennui to get down a review book &
a little later perhaps write a review. If
I have not & then ten oblivious minutes
at sunset or midnight, I am very lucky,
for at all other times, whether I am reading
or writing or talking or trying to sleep, I am
plagues by such little thoughts as
how much I shall earn this week or what
train I shall catch tomorrow or whether I
shall have any letters by the next post, &
swirling thoughts as whether any thing is
worth while, whether I shall ever again
have hope or joy or enthusiasm or
love, whether I could for any length
of time be quite sensible in taking food,
sleep, drink etc & whether if I could be,
I should be any better. You see - I must
have some motive & to be honest, my
responsibility to Helen & Merfyn & the
dear & joyful Bronwen is not a motive.
I must believe in myself or forget myself
and I cannot. I get more & more self
conscious every day - of the little good in
myself & work, - of the much bad, - of
the futility of reviewing, - of my xxx
in reviewing any book, - of my way
of doing things, - my way of speaking, -
my very attitudes, dress, expression - Shall I
ever have the [illegible] of true mind thorough insanity? Oh, for some one to help,
instead of being surrounded by people who see
that I have many things & am some things
whic they would like and therefore conclude
that I ought to be happy or that I am
'affected' or wildly exaggerating, just
because I can jest and walk a good many miles
& do a good deal of work. But do not think I
am foolish enough to believe that anyone will or
could be expected to save me.
-

Ransome didn't come here, & a
recent letter & reports of his conversation in town
make me glad that he didn't. He is quite
untrustworthy, stupid, & dull in exaggeration,
& extremely & culpably indiscreet - as I
hope you know. My liking for him was
never without artificiality. I cherished him
because he was the nearest approach to a
blithe youth I happened to know & it is
natural that I should be angry with him for
a rather speedy disillusionment. His [illegible] turns
out to have something to do with grossness &
certainly with callousness.
-
I can't go on. There is much I want to
say but I am too critical & self conscious &
could never satisfy myself or you in saying it.
So goodbye.
Yours
Edward Thomas