12 Colworth Road, Addiscombe, Croydon
1st May 1911
My dear Lou,
I suppose you will be writing to me tonight, so that our letters will again cross. I see the new moon is out, with a small star in attendance. I caught sight of it for the first time as I came down the steps of the library this evening. ‘Bless you, you little devil of a weapon’, I said. ‘You’re supposed to be lucky, but you snip the top of one’s hopes off, reminding one.’ Such a blue bright night over such ripe still yellow lamps: and at the end of it, pen and ink only. I curse these circumstances in their being and their results – let them be cursed.
At your behest I wrote yesterday fourteen pages of Paul Morel, and I sit with the paper before me to continue when this is done. I should like to be able to execute a will such as this – ‘I, D.H.L. do hereby bequeath to the devils, daemons, or Gods, all such power or fantasy as makes me a writer. I do divest me of all my extraordinary powers. I do bequeath my body and my life unto Louisa, daughter of ___.’ Don’t you wish I could do it. I would sell birthrights and deathrights for an embrace of thee, Louisa: toss ‘em out of the window, poetic powers, perceptivity, intellect – pouf: for a few kisses and a tight clasp. God help us, what a state.
Well – you see how my letters run riot. Sorry – forgive me.
Thine David Herbert Lawrence