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A Passage to India

Garry Gillard

H237 Narrative Fiction 2
Lecture 6 1995

Edward Morgan Forster, known to his friends by his second name, was born in 1879 and died 91 years later having been allowed to live for a number of years as an Honorary Fellow of King's College Cambridge. So when I read A Passage to India for the first time, in 1959, Forster was still a living, contemporary author, although the novel, which was his last, had been published thrity-five years previously, and he didn't die until 1970 when I had already been teaching English -- and maybe even E. M. Forster -- for six years. His first novel was published in 1905. Forster's father died the year after he was born, of tuberculosis and he was brought up as an only child by his mother, to whom he was consequently very close. When she died, in 1945, he wrote,

'... I partly died when my mother did, and must smell sometimes of the grave. -- I have noticed and disliked that smell in others occasionally.' [1]

It was after her death that King's College made him an Honorary Fellow. Forster described his position there like this:

I hold no College office. I attend no committee; I sit on no body, however solid, not even on the Annual Congregation; I co-opt not, neither am I co-opted; I teach not, neither do I think ... [2]

Forster had been a student at King's -- not an outstanding one -- he received seconds in Classics and History -- but he did move in the right circles. He was extremely fortunate in having had a rich great-aunt Marianne who left him a private income in the form of a legacy of 8000 pounds which enabled him to go to Cambridge and then to become a writer. At the University he was admitted to a group which was known among other titles as the Apostles. In Forster's period the discussion circle included Maynard Keynes, Roger Fry, Leonard Woolf; and a little later, Lytton Strachey, Bertrand Russell and Alfred North Whitehead -- but never any women! This membership led in turn to Forster being invited into what is known as the Bloomsbury Group. The centre of the Group was the house of Leonard and Virginia Woolf, and it included many of the people I've already mentioned -- and also T. S. Eliot on its fringe. The support of the Bloomsbury Group was an important influence on E. M., and his biographer tells us that it was mainly due to the encouragement of Leonard Woolf that he was able to finish what is seen as his masterpiece. [3]

Forster's first novel was Where Angels Fear to Tread, which was published in 1905. To put Forster's work in some sort of chronological context: Conrad published Nostromo the year before and The Secret Agent two years later, in 1907, the same year as Forster's next novel, the autobiographical Longest JourneyRoom with a View followed in 1908, the same year as Arnold Bennett's The Old Wives' Tale. Then came Howards End, his first major success, in 1910. Forster began working on A Passage to India in 1912, but it was not finished and published until much later, in 1924. Meanwhile, D. H. Lawrence would publish Sons and Lovers in 1913. James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist came out in 1916, and T. S. Eliot's Prufrock in 1917. Women in Love is from 1920, The Waste Land and Ulysses, as you know, both from 1922. After the publication of A Passage to India come T. E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom in 1926 and To the Lighthouse in 1924. Virginia Woolf published The Waves in 1931, before succumbing to them in 1941. Forster never published another novel after A Passage to India, though he continued to write reviews and so forth. He also appeared for the defence of Lady Chatterley's Lover at its trial in 1960, at which you may be pleased to know it was acquitted of the charge of obscenity. During the period of composition of A Passage to India, Forster also wrote a romantic novel called Maurice, but it was not published in his lifetime, because the romance was homosexual, and it came out in 1971. He gave the lectures that were published as Aspects of the Novel in 1927; and they are still very readable today.

In this lecture I shall concentrate mainly on only one aspect of the novel, and one that is consonant with our investigations in this unit: the aspect of knowledge; and not knowledge generally: for the sake of economy, and as standing for the quest for knowledge of 'the human predicament in a universe which is not, so far, comprehensible to our minds,' [4] I shall concentrate on knowledge of India and of Indians. So if I seem to be telling you what this novel is 'about,' then I disclaim that intention explicitly at the outset. After all, we know what A Passage to India is about, as the author has been kind enough to tell us:

The book is not really about politics, though it is the political aspect of it that caught the general public and made it sell. It's about something wider than politics, about the search of the human race for a more lasting home, about the universe as embodied in the Indian earth and the Indian sky, about the horror lurking in the Marabar Caves, about the release symbolized by the birth of Krishna. It is -- or rather desires to be -- philosophic and poetic ...' [5]

So now you know: I shall merely take up a little of your time in exploring merely one aspect of the novel, although one that I think is revelatory: the question of the relative amount of knowledge, in the first instance, knowledge of India and Indians.

What you all want to know about A Passage to India, of course, is: what happened in the Marabar Caves? I'll tell you -- but not for a moment or two. Before that, I plan, like a Good Old Pre-Post-Structuralist, to do an analysis on the basis of a pair of oppositions.

The first -- in the horizontal axis -- has to do with the quantity of knowledge in the possession of a given character -- a fundamental parameter for almost every narrative text, fictional or not. In the present case, I have decided to think about the question of knowledge of the Other. In A Passage to India, the Other is primarily either the Indian or the English person, depending on the point of view.

The second axis -- the vertical -- I propose as having to do with the DESIRE for this knowledge -- ranging from none to much.

So what we have is a force field, upon which some positions and some vectors can be mapped or graphed.

Now, considering firstly the horizontal axis: who is it that has the greatest knowledge of the Other? Well, the person who claims to have the greatest knowledge is someone with no name. Let me read you this passage in which she is introduced for the first and last time. It's on page 43 of the current Penguin edition.

... Miss Quested, who always said exactly what was in her mind, announced anew that she was desirous of seeing the real India. 
Ronny was in high spirits. The request struck him as comic, and he called out to another passer-by: "Fielding! How's one to see the real India?" 
"Try seeing Indians," the man answered, and vanished. 
"Who was that?" 
"Our schoolmaster -- Government College." 
"As if one could avoid seeing them," sighed Mrs Lesley. 
"I've avoided," said Miss Quested, "Excepting my own servant, I've scarcely spoken to an Indian since landing." 
"Oh, lucky you." 
"But I want to see them." 
She became the centre of an amused group of ladies. One said: "Wanting to see Indians! How new that sounds!" Another: "Natives! Why, fancy!" A third, more serious, said: "Let me explain. Natives don't respect one any the more after meeting one, you see." 
"That occurs after so many meetings." 
But the lady, entirely stupid and friendly, continued: "What I mean is, I was a nurse before my marriage, and came across them a great deal, so I know. I really do know the truth about Indians. A most unsuitable position for an Englishwoman -- I was a nurse in a Native State. One's only hope was to hold sternly aloof." 
"Even from one's patients?" 
"Why, the kindest thing one can do to a native is to let him die," said Mrs Callendar. 
"How if he went to heaven?" asked Mrs Moore, with a gentle but crooked smile. 
"He can go where he likes as long as he doesn't come near me. They give me the creeps."' [6]

Well, that was a long passage: did you spot the expert in it? She is the woman who was a nurse before her marriage, and who 'really [does] know the truth about Indians.' The authorial narrator, the voice of 'Forster' (in inverted commas), says what I feel is a quite extraordinary thing about her, given that the point -- as I see it anyway -- of the whole book is to 'know the truth about Indians': he calls her 'stupid.'

Well, OK, the word partly indicates her insensitivity relative to her interlocutors, but I think it also suggests her position in the novel's moral universe. As I read this, 'Forster' (and he will be for the most part in this discussion in inverted commas, representing the authorial/narrative voice) 'Forster' is suggesting that anyone who would claim to have a complete grasp of any such a complex field as that represented here by the word 'Indians' must be 'stupid.'

With regard to greatest to least understanding

greatest

neutral

least

'nurse'

Adela

Mrs Callendar

Fielding

Aziz

Turton

Godbole

Mrs Moore

With regard to greatest to least DESIRE for understanding

greatest

neutral

least

Adela

Fielding

Prof. Godbole

Dr Aziz

Turton

Mrs Moore

If you were mapping this on a field with 'greatest to least understanding' in the horizontal axis, the last four characters, Adela Quested, Dr Aziz, Prof. Godbole, Mrs Moore, would be close to the centre on the horizontal, while Fielding and Turton would represent the extremes.

If you were mapping this on a field with 'greatest to least DESIRE for understanding' in the vertical axis, Fielding and Turton would now be close to the centre vertically. Adela Quested (as her name implies) and Dr Aziz would represent the extreme of 'needing to know,' while Prof. Godbole and Mrs Moore would represent the opposite extreme: they have no interest in these matters, as their lives are thoroughly organised within their own cultural paradigm, or their own personal beliefs.

We see some of this in the passage I've quoted. 'Miss Quested, who always said exactly what was in her mind, announced anew that she was desirous of seeing the real India.' Adela [her name starts and ends with A, perhaps because she is only at the beginning of her quest; perhaps in opposition to the Other, Aziz, with two Zs] Adela desires to understand because she is in a position in her life, in both temporal and spatial senses, where she is in a liminal position, and seems to have to make a choice: India, marriage, sex, Ronny, the body of another, love ... Her desire to see 'the real India' is tied up with her desire to see real life, in many senses, and to come to understand something about which at the beginning of her quest she knows very little.

Then Ronny: 'Ronny was in high spirits. The request struck him as comic, and he called out to another passer-by: "Fielding! How's one to see the real India?"' For Ronny, the question of wanting to know more about Indians is ridiculous and a suitable subject for joking, so that he calls out carelessly to a person for whom he has little respect for an answer. He himself assumes he knows enough about Indians to rule them; for Ronny they are simply a subject people, rather like children who have to be brought up properly, and, like children, he seems them as unreliable, untruthful, immoral. He thinks of 'the Indian' as a cliche, and is capable of reducing Indians to a single type, as when he speaks of 'the fundamental slackness that reveals the race.' (89)

Fielding, however, has no patience with the question. "Try seeing Indians," the man answered, and vanished.' He cannot be bothered even to stop and take the question seriously: the answer for him is obvious. He spends much of his time with Indians and has attained, I suggest, a knowledge of them that he takes for granted. All that is needed to understand Indians is to see some of them: it's obvious.

Mrs Lesley -- "As if one could avoid seeing them," sighed Mrs Lesley -- in this introductory scene she is the representative of the Turtons and Burtons and Callendars, and the 'amused group of ladies' in this case, who have little knowledge of Indians, and desire even less. Mrs Callendar even says "Why, the kindest thing one can do to a native is to let him die," rather alarmingly recalling the racist attitudes typically expressed towards the other kind of Indians in Cowboys and Injuns films of the 1950s and 1960s, when European characters -- the 'Cowboys' -- were capable of such profound reflections as 'the only good Indian is a dead Indian.' Far from wanting to understand Indians, she, like all the Turtons and Burtons, simply wants them to keep as far away as possible. ("He can go where he likes as long as he doesn't come near me. They give me the creeps.")

Another early scene which displays the shocking ignorance of the Burtons and Turtons is the one at the Bridge party in which Mrs Callendar gives her Urdu an outing.

Advancing, she [Mrs Callendar] shook hands with the group and said a few words of welcome in Urdu. She had learned the lingo, but only to speak to her servants, so she knew none of the politer forms, and of the verbs only the imperative mood. As soon as her speech was over, she inquired of her companions, "Is that what you wanted?"
"Please tell these ladies that I wish we could speak their language, but we have only just come to their country." [Likely it is Adela who says this; though it is Mrs Moore in the film.]
"Perhaps we speak yours a little," one of the ladies said.
"Why, fancy, she understands!" said Mrs Turton.
"Eastbourne, Piccadilly, High [sic] Park Corner," said another of the ladies.
"Oh, yes, they're English-speaking."
"But now we can talk; how delightful!" cried Adela, her face lighting up.
"She knows Paris also," called one of the onlookers.
"They pass Paris on the way, no doubt, " said Mrs Turton as if she was describing the movements of migratory birds. (56-57)

It is hard to believe that Mrs Callendar is so ignorant of the environment in which she lives that she does not realise that Mrs Bhattacharya speaks English, although Forster (the man this time, not the narrator) tells us that 'the manners of [the English] women-folk could be ghastly.' [7] By the way, I find it hard to understand, if this is one of the points that 'Forster' (back in inverted commas again) is making in this scene, why he himself writes caricatural dialogue for the Indian woman, having her say, inter alia, 'High [sic] Park Corner' for 'Hyde Park Corner.' (I'm assuming this is not a slip.)

Mrs Moore puts her quizzical question. ("How if he went to heaven?" asked Mrs Moore, with a gentle but crooked smile.) She assumes from the first that Indians will go to Heaven, just like English people, because they share the same fundamental humanity. Because of her assumption of this knowledge she has no great desire to understand these Others, just a gentle curiosity. In fact, as for Aziz, he simply 'is an Oriental.' (231)

Aziz [his name almost starts and ends with Z; perhaps because he represents the end of Adela's quest; perhaps in opposition to her as Other [8]] Aziz like Adela also needs to understand partly because he is in a position in his life, in both temporal and spatial senses, where he is in a liminal position, and seems to have to make a choice: he wants to leave the Raj and go to an Indian state, but still reveres the English to a degree.

So far I've been dealing with what I might call the social or political or -- if you like -- racial Other. Now I want to consider another kind of alterity -- the sexual Other -- but again I'll focus on the scene -- or the lack of a scene -- in the cave.

At the moment when Adela enters the cave she is in a state of heightened awareness of -- among other things -- sexuality. Not long before this excursion she has broken off her engagement to marry Ronny, and then, under the influence of a small crisis she reinstitutes the contract. And we might note in passing that she has all the power in this regard -- make of that what you will! (The 'crisis' is done rather well, I think, in the film, which has Adela cycling by chance into a ruined Hindu temple which is furnished with lavish and explicit stone carvings of presumably divine beings engaged in sexual coupling. It focuses her mind quite effectively; and she returns and flings herself into Ronny's rather lukewarm embrace.) Then, as she approaches the plateau with the entrances to the cave -- the climax to the excursion -- she seems to become aware of Aziz as a man and husband and father -- and perhaps, it would seem to follow -- of his attractiveness in these aspects. Let us look in some detail at the passage which ends Chapter 15.

Do I take you too fast?' inquired Aziz ... [Adela has paused, as she has just realised that she does not love Ronny.] 'No, I'm all right, thanks,' she said, and, her emotions well under control, resumed the climb ... Aziz held her hand ...
'Are you married, Dr Aziz?' she asked, stopping again, and frowning.
'Yes, indeed, do come and see my wife' -- for he felt it more artistic to have his wife alive for a moment.
'Thank you,' she said absently. ['Absently,' because that means that Adela cannot be his wife if he has one already -- but she is about to realise that as a Muslim he can have more.]
'She is not in Chandrapore just now.'
'And have you children?'
'Yes, indeed, three,' he replied in firmer tones.
'Are they a great pleasure to you?' ['And was it a pleasure to conceive them?' we might add.]
'Why, naturally, I adore them' he laughed.
'I suppose so.' What a handsome little Oriental he was, and no doubt his wife and children were beautiful too, for people usually get what they already possess. She did not admire him with any personal warmth, [This is of course the content of Adela's thought as reported by the narrator, and you might want to use this statement to support the notion that Adela is therefore not sexually attracted by Aziz; but I suggest that even a character's thoughts, like their words, may be taken as the reader chooses to find them. We are prepared to interpret what the character 'really means' by what they say: there is reason to think we may do the same with their thoughts. We are all capable of prevarication, even in our own minds. So: ] She did not admire him with any personal warmth, for there was nothing of the vagrant in her blood, but she guessed he might attract women of his own race and rank, and she regretted that neither she nor Ronny had physical charm. It does make a difference in a relationship -- beauty, thick hair, a fine skin. Probably this man had several wives -- Mohammedans always insist on their full four, according to Mrs Turton. And, having no one else to speak to on that eternal rock, [because she is strongly desirous of verbal intercourse on the question of love and marriage] she gave rein to the subject of marriage and said in her honest, decent, inquisitive way: 'Have you one wife or more than one?'
The question shocked the young man very much. ... He was in trouble how to conceal his confusion. 'One, one in my own particular case,' he sputtered, and let go of her hand. Quite a number of caves were at the top of the track, and thinking 'Damn the English even at their best' he plunged into one of them to recover his balance. She followed at her leisure, quite unconscious that she had said the wrong thing, and not seeing him she also went into a cave, thinking with half her mind, 'sightseeing bores me' and wondering with the other half about marriage.' (148-9)

That's about the best representation you're going to get of Adela's state of mind immediately before the alleged attack on her virtue. Although only 'half her mind' is on marriage, the other half is only thinking negatively about what it's supposed to be observing, so she is in a highly receptive state, as I said before, in a state of heightened sexual awareness. We are given some additional notion of what happens in Adela's mind in this later passage, from Chapter 22.

And consequently the echo flourished, raging up and down like a nerve in the faculty of her hearing, and the noise in the cave, so unimportant intellectually, was prolonged over the surface of her life. She had struck the polished wall -- for no reason -- and before the comment had died away he followed her, and the climax was the falling of her field-glasses. The sound had spouted after her when she escaped, and was going on still like a river that gradually floods the plain. Only Mrs Moore could drive it back to its source and seal the broken reservoir. Evil was loose ... (183)

If you would permit a very brief psychoanalytical excursion at this point I would suggest that Adela in the cave is in the position of a small rather helpless organism in a rather large rounded dark space -- rather like being inside a body, or part of a body -- the uterus, perhaps. There is only one opening into this cavity, one through which one might or not enter with pleasure, and from which one might only leave with difficulty. In the dark, and with only an overwhelming 'Boum' for company -- rather like the sound of an enormous, omnipresent heart beat, perhaps, Adela is overwhelmed by -- something, some other kind of Otherness. In the later passage you would notice that the echo is said to be 'unimportant intellectually' and by deduction, 'important non-intellectually,' that is, unconsciously. Vulgar Freudians would also note the use of the word 'climax,' and the ejaculatory evocation of the sound which 'spouted after her when she escaped.'

Why didn't Forster -- or his narrator, if you insist -- simply tell us what happened in the cave? Well, he actually did at an early stage, but then later crossed it out. But only a privileged few of us are able to get hold of this early draft. The Manuscripts of A Passage to India, edited by the same Oliver Stallybrass [9] who is the editor of the current Penguin edition, was published in 1978 in only 1500 copies, only 1400 of which were sold. It's as though there was a conspiracy to protect hoi polloi from knowing the facts. Here they are.

An extra darkness showed that someone was following her down the entrance tunnel. "Doctor Aziz --" she began, glad to continue the conversation. 
At first she thought that {she was being robbed,} he was {holding} \taking/ her hand \as before/ to help her {out}, then she realised, and shrieked at the top of her voice: "Boum" {went} \shrieked [?]/ the echo. She struck out and he got hold of her other hand and forced her against the wall, he got both her hands in one of his; and then felt at her {dress} \breasts/. "Mrs Moore," she yelled. "Ronny -- don't let him, save me." The strap of her Field Glasses, tugged suddenly, was drawn across her throat. She understood -- it was to be passed once round her neck, {it was to} she was to be throttled as far as necessary and then ... [Forster's suspension points] Silent, though the echo still raged up and down, she waited and when the breath was on her wrenched a hand free, got hold of the glasses and pushed them at \into/ her assailant's mouth. She could not push hard, but it was enough to {free her} hurt him. He let go, and then with both hands \on her weapon/ she smashed {him to pieces} \at him again/. She was strong and had horrible joy in revenge. "Not this time" she cried, and he answered -- or {perhaps it was} the cave \did/. She gained the entrance {and} of the tunnel, screamed like a maniac lest he pulled her in when she stooped, and {regained} \then [sic]/ the open air, her topi smashed, her fingers bleeding. (242)

She then runs down the hill and is rescued by Miss Derek. Now: why did Forster delete this whole episode (it's about four pages altogether) from the published novel? I shall leave that for your discussion, and for the moment will only suggest that it may have had something to do with the novelist's homosexuality! It would be interesting to compare the scenes of heterosexual encounters -- such as they are -- including this repressed one -- with the scenes where affection between men is portrayed. For example, there is the scene where Aziz plays a chukka with the subaltern in Chapter 6.

Concentrated on the ball, they somehow became fond of one another, and smiled when they drew rein to rest. Aziz liked solders ... and the subaltern liked anyone who could ride. ... They reined up again, the fire of good fellowship in their eyes. But it cooled with their bodies, for athletics can only raise a temporary glow. Nationality was returning, but before it could exert its poison they parted, saluting each other. "If only they were all like that," each thought. (69, 70)

By the way I presume you spotted the reference to this encounter in the great group scene in the Club in Chapter 20, where the same subaltern says,

The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. (174-5)

The last encounter in the novel is also one that takes place between two men on horseback, and is the culminating moment in what I suggest is the relationship in the novel about which Forster writes with most conviction. This is the way the novel ends -- not with a whimper.

"If I don't make you go [shouts Aziz], Ahmed will, Karim will, if it's fifty or five hundred years we shall get rid of you, yes, we shall drive every blasted Englishman into the sea, and then" -- he rode against him furiously -- "and then," he concluded, half kissing him, "you and I shall be friends." 
"Why can't we be friends now?" said the other, holding him affectionately. "It's what I want. It's what you want." 
But the horses didn't want it -- they swerved apart; the earth didn't want it sending up rocks through which riders must pass single-file; the temples, the tank, the jail, the palace, the birds, the carrion, the Guest House, that came into view as they issued from the gap and saw Mau beneath: they didn't want it, they said in their hundred voices, "No, not yet," and the sky said, "No, not there." (289)

Which is one way of introducing the last Other that I want to mention: this time not a social, nor interpersonal, nor sexual Other, but a religious or metaphysical Other. By this I mean to refer not to the obvious differences in religion between Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, and Christianity, but rather to the kind of interest signalled by Forster in the passage I quoted earlier: all that stuff about the universe. Because at some points the book shows an interest which -- recalling the terms I was using in my first lecture in this unit -- an interest which is more ontological than epistemological. The structure that I set up in the earlier part of this lecture was concerned with the quest for knowledge, that is, an epistemological issue. The question posed by the bulk of the novel is: how do we come to know about these others? But in some aspects of the novel the issue is rather more to do with the nature of being, more about 'universe as embodied in the Indian earth and the Indian sky,' more 'about the release symbolized by the birth of Krishna'; more -- in a word -- ontological. The moments that I am thinking of have particularly to do with the echo that is not only in Adela's mind, but in Mrs Moore's also; and also with that little wasp that claims the attention of so many of the characters: 'it focuses Mrs Moore's love in Chapter 3 and Mr Sorley's distaste in Chapter 4; it unites Godbole and Mrs Moore in Chapter 33, and no doubt [!] it is what distracts Aziz in Chapter 37, causing him to add [one more] sentence in his letter to Adela.' [10]

Now I don't want you to think for a moment that I am claiming that Forster is a postmodernist. I'm not. I think rather that he is aspiring to be a metaphysician, or at least, as he says, 'philosophic and poetic.' But I personally find these aspects of the novel rather unconvincing and uninteresting. I find myself rather in agreement with D. H. Lawrence, in a letter that he wrote Forster from New Mexico.

... I don't care about Bo-oum -- Not all the universe. ... You saying human relationships don't matter, then after all hingeing your book on a very unsatisfactory friendship between two men! Carito! -- After one's primary relation to the X -- I don't know what to call it, but not god or the universe -- only human relations matter. [11]

Notes

1 Letter to Isherwood (26 August 1945), quoted in Furbank, P. N. 1978, E.M. Forster: A Life; Volume Two: Polycrates' Ring (1914-1970), Secker & Warburg, London: 259.

2 From 'a speech,' as cited in Gillie, Christopher 1983, A Preface to Forster, Longman: 39.

3 Furbank 1978: 106.

4 E. M. Forster's 1960 'Programme note to Santha Rama Rau's dramatized version,' Appendix III to A Passage to India, Penguin, 1979: 307. 'I also tried to describe human beings; these may not have altered so much. Furthermore -- taking my title from a poem of Walt Whitman's -- I tried to indicate the human predicament in a universe which is not, so far, comprehensible to our minds.'

5 Forster, E. M. 'Three Countries,' MS [1950s], King's College, Cambridge, as cited in A Passage to India, Penguin, 1979: 22.

6 Forster 1979 [1924], A Passage to India, Penguin: 43-44. Further page references given in the text above.

7 Forster, E. M. 'Three Countries,' MS [1950s], King's College, Cambridge, as cited in A Passage to India, Penguin, 1979: 10.

8 In a course on narrative, an awareness of such oppositions as A/Z obviously owes much to Roland Barthes 1975 [1971], S/Z, tr. Richard Howard Cape, London.

9 Stallybrass, Oliver ed. 1978, The Manuscripts of A Passage to India, Edward Arnold, London.

10 Gillie, Christopher 1983, A Preface to Forster, Longman: 153.

11 Letter to Forster of 23 July 1924; quoted in Furbank, P. N. 1978, E.M. Forster: A Life; Volume Two: Polycrates' Ring (1914-1970), Secker & Warburg, London: 124.


Garry Gillard | New: 5 February, 2018 | Now: 5 February, 2018