[Monk's House, Rodmell,
Oct 3rd [1926]

My dear Gerald,

I was going through the Nation Questionnaire just now and came on your name. This did not remind me 
of you. I hadn't forgotten you: but perhaps if I write to you on the spur of the moment I may get an answer. Write 
to 52 T.S: we go back in a day; though the sun is blazing here, like August, only gentler and lovelier.

Ralph said he had read enough of your novel to perceive a masterpiece. Why aren't I allowed to read it 
then? Am I inferior to Ralph? Certainly, in some ways. I dont think I shall ever possess his sexual powers, for 
one thing, which must be a cause of endless pleasure to him: though a little mystifying, I daresay, to Frances 
Marshall. Do the sexes differ greatly here? I wish you would explain what this vein in the thigh does to the 
vision of the world—slip a purple shade over it, or what? Somebody said you live in a hotel with a couple of 
Colonels, and a maiden lady. You read enormously; and sit at a café flipping sheet after sheet, scribbled over, 
under a very inferior sheet of blotting paper. When it gets too dark to see you jump up, and take a brisk walk to 
the castle in the vineyards; dine; very sparely; and read till 2 or 3 in the morning. Sometimes one of the Colonels 
drops in for a talk—can't make you out quite, whereas the maiden lady finds you're sympathetic, and wishes you 
weren't so lonely.

Do you like the life of yourself? I'm very idle, sitting over the fire; writing with difficulty in a slippery 
book, while the dogs (alas we have two) snore and grumble. I finished a novel [To the Lighthouse] 10 days ago: 
and already regard it, in which my whole life was wound and bound for 7 months, with complete indifference. 
I want to buy a motor car, thats all, and wander over the Continent, poking into ruined cities, basking, drinking, 
writing, like you, in cafés, and talking to Colonels and maiden ladies. Come with me—I will drive: you shall buy 
grapes and bread, and discuss the state of the wine with natives.

People have been dropping in, but so briefly that I have discovered nothing new about the human 
soul. For instance, Nick, Tommie, Barbara, and the shadow of Saxon. Also the shadow of Lytton, Colefax, 
and Raymond Mortimer. Shall you come back? What are the books to read? How is one to live wisely? What 
mixture of art, literature, and society is right? Is there anything to be said about fiction? about Wells' new novels, 
about Haydon's diaries, about Eddy Sackville-Wests novel etc, etc? These questions will all be debated during 
the coming winter at the Bloomsbury Bar, meeting in Duncan's studio alternate Fridays. I hereby invite you.

It is pitch dark in the room now, except for a very coarse strong lamp, which blazes my eyes out, and
illumines a pot of brilliant red and yellow dahlias. Talking of flowers, I never forget the lilies you gave me last 

Yrs V.W.