Aldwinckle, Eric, Letter, 18 May [1945]

00001616-2.jpg
Description: 
Letter to Harry Somers

Tabs

Case Study: 
Creative Dialogue Across the Ocean: Eric Aldwinckle’s Letters to Harry Somers
Creator: 
Aldwinckle, Eric
Source: 
letter
Date: 
18 May [1945]
Place: London
Collection/Fonds: 
Contributer: 
McMaster University Libraries
Rights: 
Copyright, public domain: McMaster University owns the rights to the archival copy of the digital image in TIFF format. Reproduced with the kind permission of Margaret Bridgman.

Identifier: 
00001616-2
Language: 
eng
Type: 
image
Format: 
jpg
Transcript: 

I suppose next year I will have the pleasure of writing you addressed H. Somers, The old mill, R.R. #2, Ontario, while you write me c/o The Little blue church on the Hill - RR # 7 1/8, Ontario, finishing off of course 'so long for now.' So very long for now.
I am studying lithography in my spare time at the London School of Arts and Crafts. It is a splendid medium, and I shall buy a hand press and do some fine prints in my little old kerk. It will help keep the wolf from having pups in the chancel, and I won't have to kneel to the great god Advertising. I would like to do a book or two (or three? ) (or even four) And of course if you were very nice to me I might even make prints of a musical score of your works. However I doubt it very much. But will always be glad to sing one of your songs!!! Anyway I have still to decide whether I shall have the press or the kitchen in the rectory, or move the bats and work in the belfry.
Well I can dream can't I?
My work, or lack of it, is uninteresting now and I am waiting 'word about' when I can return. Meanwhile everybody's out for anyone else but everybody. Democracy and brotherly love will start functioning once more. Now I deem it wise to spend more time with less people and not be so stupidly trusting.
Short story.
Tonight waiting for a bus at Hyde Park, a dull and frequent occupation: I observed staring at me like a startled lunatic, a stone figure of Shakespeare. He was dominating a fountain in the middle of the road, one of those fantastic monstrosities only found in London. His nose and moustache were blown off by flack, his knees were very dirty and his jerkins torn. He was not alone. Two others who weren't speaking to him were with him, forming a group back to backs. A gilded aphrodite with one wing gone was still enjoying the soundless toot of an extended trumpet as she, or it, balanced rigidly upon a ball contrived above the heads of the three muses. Around the square base, four black figures sat gazing glumly into the dusty troughs. Looking over