12 March 1921

12 March 1921

Villa Isola Bella, Menton, France

Dear Sydney
Since receiving your letter Life has driven me through dark little doorways, down underground passages which ended this week in one of those white tiled rooms, with glass shelves, a line display of delicate steel, too many wash basins, a frosted windy glass & a narrow little black sofa with steel grips for the patient to cling to. Here the surgeon & my doctor decided to risk it and plunged about 2 1/2 inches of hollow knitting needle into my neck & withdrew it. Success triumphant. This process, repeated twice or thrice will, they hope, in time, relieve the accumulation . . . And so on and so on and so on . . .
Brett sends me a silly letter: I return a tart reply. But really to emerge, to be above ground long enough, peacefully enough to take my friend by the hand & beg him not to talk of “boring me” and not to imagine Ill accept “obvious explanations" — thats been awfully difficult. In fact its not been possible. So Ive had to risk your cursing me and turning away from me and thinking your very worst.
All the same, I shall risk coming back to my small place by the fire. I shall even pretend (until I know) that you understand and are not at all fierce . . . I loved your letter. Life is so very short. Let me say again, quickly, nothing you can tell me bores me. The only thing in the world that bores me is falsity, insincerity. I cannot tell you how I value, how I appreciate, anything you may ever care to tell me. But I wish you may soon know me well enough to feel I do not misunderstand you — — —

[To Sydney Waterlow in Collected Letters, 16 March 1921.]