TO HIS BROTHER, WARREN LEWIS: On prayer as writing letters to somone who never replies.
I was delighted to get your letter this morning; for some reason it had been sent first to a non-existent address in Liverpool. I had deliberately written nothing to you since those two you mention: not that I was tired of a job, but because I did not feel disposed to go on posting into the void untill I had some assurance that my effusions would reach you. That seemed a process too like prayer for my taste: as I once said to Baker – my mystical friend with the crowded poetry- the trouble about God is that he is like a person who never acknowledges one’s letters and so, in time, one comes to the conclusion either that he does not exist or that you have got the adress wrong. I addmited that it was of great moment: but what was the use of going on despatching fervent messages – say to Edinburgh – if they all came back through the dead letter office: nay more, if you couldn’t even find Edinburgh on the map. His cryptic reply was that it would be almost worth going to Edinburgh to find out. I am glad however that you have ceased to occupy such a divine position, and will do my best to continue: though I hope it won’t be for fifteen months.