I’ve two ‘kick offs’ in the writing game. One is joy – real joy – […] and that sort of writing I could only do in just that state of being in some perfectly blissful way at peace. Then something delicate and lovely seems to open before my eyes, like a flower without thought of a frost or a cold breath – knowing that all about it is warm and tender and ‘ready’. And that I try, ever so humbly, to express.
The other ‘kick off’ is my old original one, and (had I not known love) it would have been my all. Not hate or destruction (both are beneath contempt as real motives) but an extremely deep sense of hopelessness, of everything doomed to disaster, almost wilfully, stupidly, like the almond tree and ‘pas de nougat pour le noel’. There! as I took out a cigarette paper I got it exactly – a cry against corruption – that is absolutely the nail on the head. Not a protest – a cry, and I mean corruption in the widest sense of the word, of course.