I am again intending to cross the Atlantic.1 I think it is in some way necessary for me that I should see things from your side of the water—from the point of view of solution from old world ties (they are tight enough here!)—at any rate I am continually impelled to make this voyage.
But I should not write to you on that account, except that seeing you goes along with—is, in some sense, the main part of it all. Now I am not going to love you—I know well enough what boredom is—nor do I come as a curious, as you well know if you read the enclosed—but I think there are reasons why we should meet.
syr_kc.00012_large.jpgNow what I want you to do is—I do not want you to say Yes, but I want you to say No—if No is the word. For I feel that you may be unwell—altogether unable or unwilling to see strangers—then if it is so, just the one bit of kindness you can do for me is to say it (on a postcard). Will you do that?—and as soon as possible.
I am able to get away from my work towards the middle of April, and it would be then that I should undertake this journey—having probably syr_kc.00013_large.jpgto return to England by the end of May.
I enclose 2 or 3 specimens of much that I have been writing in spare hours of late—social complications coming into the subjects of many of them: but I shall not publish them just yet.
What must be done—and what you have largely (for a foundation entirely) done—is to form a new organic centre for the thought growth of this age. All seems clear to me at times, so simple, so luminously clear—I have no more doubt or trouble for myself—but then to express it: that is an syr_kc.00014_large.jpgendless business—a thing never finished.
My usual address is 45 Brunswick Square, Brighton.
Please however, if you write now, address to York as above.
Your two volumes with my name written in them are my faithful companions.
Yours Edward Carpenter To Walt Whitman. 1. March 1877. syr_kc.00015_large.jpg syr_kc.00016_large.jpg