Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Elses Farm, The Weald, Kent. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/37
The Weald
30. vi. 05

My dear Gordon,
I don’t believe I shall ever read your play through again however long I keep it. For I really can’t read anything nowadays that I have not got to read. Even your “September” excited as was by the idea of your using that mode, I read as if I was to review it; saw its faults and determined to say nothing about it. The result of all my reviewing seems to be that I lose all power except of saying what a thing is not - a power I always had but could once upon a time keep under - you don’t know what it means to make £5 or £6 a week by reviewing. This week for example, I read review books all day on Monday Tuesday, interrupted only by my little bits of housework, lessons to Merfyn meals. Then until tonight I have been reading and writing all day with the same interruptions and also about 1/4 hours to Virgil; the only
other books opened being the Keats and Shelley from which I gave Merfyn his spelling lesson. And now I am so tired that I was amazed that I could nearly enjoy some sea tales by John Masefield- also for (illegible)- an hour ago. My opinion therefore is worth nothing (except money). I greatly fear I cannot keep up to even my old standard - original writing I dream about, but never get so far as to get out paper and pen for it. ….. and yet you expect me to write about “September” and “Midsummer Eve”. Why, I forgot that it was Midsummer Day this week- tho I was sentimental enough to remember that I must celebrate it a few days before. One nightingale sang for a minute as I walked to my cottage on Tuesday. It was the last- the cuckoo is almost silent. The year has passed; the spring has done without me; I have not had one good hour of standing still and forgetting time. But I make over £200 a year, or can expect to.