Cambridge Authors

In November 1914 he was thinking about the First World War, then in its first months. In a letter to his friend Malcolm Darling, he expressed a resigned opinion that 'we could not have kept out of this war’. He also related a change of opinion. Formerly, 'I did think that we should send no men to France, but support our Allies by the Navy only’. Now, the need to engage more aggressively was more compelling. However, Forster maintained that 'stalemate’ was the probable outcome, and that European civilization would take a long time to recover 'whichever side wins’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 6 November 1914)

In October 1938 he was thinking about Communism. He wrote to the poet Cecil Day-Lewis about the troubling political situation in Europe. Having spoken up for Communism before, Forster now noted that he had 'disillusionments which don’t altogether proceed from my own weakness’. In particular, 'Russia, perhaps through no fault of her own, seems to be going in the wrong direction; too much uniformity and too much bloodshed’. He held out some hope for the future: after what he called 'the next European catastrophe’, perhaps Communism might 'do better’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 30 October 1938)

In October 1922 he was thinking about Virginia Woolf’s novel Jacob’s Room. In a letter to the author, he expressed relief that she had created 'the reader’s interest in at least one of the characters as a character – if that goes we merely swing about in blobs of amusement or pathos’. Although he called it 'beautiful’ overall, this was doubled-edged praise, making adverse comparison with other experimental work. He remarked on what he felt was the book’s welcome emotional outlook: Jacob’s Room 'is seen through happiness, you have got quite clear from the sensitive sorrower whom novelists cadge up to as the easiest medium for observations’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 24 October 1922)

In October 1916 he was thinking about sex. In a letter never actually sent to his confidante Florence Barger from Alexandria, he wrote about how -- euphemistically – he had 'parted with respectability’ for the first time. He felt no remorse, and although he acknowledged the 'physical hunger’ involved, felt that 'in this, as in every thing, one is really after intimacy, however little one realises it’. He described his wish to write about such feelings as 'this enormous torrent in me which never stops and of which the novel is only one splash’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 16 October 1916)

In October 1924 he was thinking about hospitality and social class. In a letter to his confidante Florence Barger, he wrote about a new friendship with a 'motor driver’ (it seems fair to presume a sexual attraction from the outset, but the letter is a little coy about it). Having been invited for biscuits and coffee at his house, Forster had to think about how to reciprocate. He reported on a discussion with his mother, who was worried that the man had not 'place me socially’, and might 'collapse when he sees the splendours of Harnham’ [the family home]. Forster was worried about causing offence, but hoped for the best: 'The “lower classes”, especially near London, seldom ask strangers to their houses. That he has done so, and introduced me to his wife quite simply, does suggest something rather remarkable and perhaps rather lovable’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 2 October 1924)

In September 1890 he was thinking about the seaside, and whether he wanted to be at school. In a letter to his mother sent from Kent House school, the young Forster devotes time to 'limpets and lots of crabs’, to 'rocks, shingle, and sand’, and swimming lessons: 'they made me dip my head, which I did not like’. At the end of the letter he opens up a bit more: 'I think I will tell you I am not happy. What with the moving and other things it makes me feel bad.’ (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of late September 1890)

In September 1902 he was thinking about art and nudity. In a letter to his friend Edward Dent from Nuremberg about the art galleries of Munich, he described both the Old and New galleries. Of the moderns, he liked Arnold Bocklin. Of the classics, he gave time to Rubens 'and came away more understanding if not more appreciative’. He had a particular criticism: 'Why I cry out against Rubens is because he painted undressed people instead of naked ones. If their clothes haven’t just been torn off them, they are always wondering where they are, and expecting you to wonder. I don’t think it’s an epigram to say that he’s too prudish for me.’ (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 17 September 1902)

In September 1924 he was thinking about how to develop a philosophy of life. In a letter to his friend Malcolm Darling, he asked him whether he had managed in his life to 'formulate anything like a philosophy about it?’ He sought Darling’s opinion because he was 'one of the few people I know who have done practical work and continued to think dispassionately’. He compared the way that Cambridge academics tackled the big questions of existence: 'I heard a nice story yesterday of [politician and scholar] Gerald Balfour, who returned to France after Cambridge “to think out the secret of the Universe”. He was absent several years, and on his return was greeted by J.K. Stephen [also a scholar] with the enquiry: “Well Gerald: did you think of anything?” Freezing and frozen silence.’ (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 15 September 1924)

In September 1938 he was thinking about religious differences. In a letter to an unidentified woman – but evidently a hotel owner – he addressed what must have been questions about segregation. He tactfully pointed out that not all Indians were Hindus, and agreed with her that English guests sometimes made it hard to have guests from different cultures in a hotel. In India, Forster wrote, there are some reasons for segregation (unspecified), but 'in England they don’t exist, still there is a tendency in some quarters to introduce them, and to saddle us with race- and caste-troubles which do not belong to us at all’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 5 September 1938)

In August 1938 he was thinking about the ending of Maurice. In a letter to the writer Christopher Isherwood he told of 'an Epilogue chapter’ that everybody who read it had deemed 'a mistake’: 'Kitty, on an old-maidish weekend in Yorkshire, comes across them both as woodcutters’. This was not meant to be a simple endorsement of their happiness. Forster added 'I can only still see them together if they have passed a lifetime of adventures together – I have sometimes thought of Alec marrying’. (Source: Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, ed. Mary Lago and P.N. Furbank (London: Collins, 1983-1985), letter of 28 August 1938)