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My dear Peter Gilles,
I feel almost ashamed to send you this little book about the Utopian Republic, for I've kept you waiting for nearly a year, and you doubtless expected to get it within six weeks. You knew that in this work I didn't have the problem of finding my own subject-matter and puzzling out a suitable form—all I had to do was repeat what Raphael told us. There was no need to bother very much about the wording, since his style wasn't particularly polished—the whole thing was improvised on the spur of the moment, and, as you know, his Latin isn't quite as good as his Greek. So the closer I could get to his simple, off-hand way of expressing himself, the closer I'd be to the truth, which in this case is all I'm worrying about, and all I ought to worry about.
Yes, Peter, I know. So much of it was ready made, that there was practically nothing left for me to do. Mind you, in any other circumstances the creation and organization of a thing like this would have demanded a good deal of time and thought—even from a reasonably intelligent and cultivated person. And if the style had had to be graceful as well as accurate, no amount of time and thought would have enabled me to do it. As it was, I was relieved of all such headaches. My job was simply to write down what I'd heard, which was really perfectly easy—but my other commitments have left me less than no time to get this perfectly easy job done. I've been kept hard at work in the law courts, either at the Bar or on the Bench, either in civil or in criminal cases. Then there's always someone that has to be visited, either on business, or as a matter of courtesy. I'm out practically all day, dealing with other people—the rest of the day I spend with my family—so there's no time left for me, that is, for my writing.
You see, when I come home, I've got to talk to my wife, have a chat with my children, and discuss things with my servants. I count this as one of my commitments, because it's absolutely necessary, if I'm not to be a stranger in my own home. Besides, one should always try to be nice to the people one lives with, whether one has chosen their company deliberately, or merely been thrown into it by chance or family-relationship—that is, as nice as one can without spoiling them, or turning servants into masters.
Thus the days, the months, the years slip by. You may ask, when do I write then? Well, so far I haven't mentioned sleep, or meals—which many people allow to consume as much time as sleep itself—and in fact the only time I ever get to myself is what I steal from sleep and meals. There isn't very much of it, so my progress has been slow—but there has at least been some, so I've finally finished Utopia, and I'm sending it to you, my dear Peter, in the hope that you will read it, and tell me if I've left anything out. I feel fairly confident on that score—for I only wish my scholarship and intelligence were up to the standard of my memory—but not quite confident enough to assume that nothing could have slipped my mind.
As you know, my young assistant, John Clement, was with us at the time. I never let him miss any conversation that might have some educational value, for he has already begun to show such promise in Latin and Greek that I expect great things of him one day. Well, he has made me feel very doubtful about one point. As far as I can recall, Raphael told us that the bridge across the river Nowater at Aircastle was five hundred yards long, but John wants me to reduce this number by two hundred, for he says the river wasn't more than three hundred yards wide at that point. Will you please search your memory for the correct figure? If you agree with him, I'll take your word for it, and assume that I've made a mistake. But if you've completely forgotten, I'll let my figure stand, for that's how I seem to remember it. You see, I'm extremely anxious to get my facts right, and, when in doubt, any lies that I tell will be quite unintentional, for I'd much rather be thought honest than clever.
However, the simplest solution would be for you to ask Raphael himself, either by word of mouth or by letter—in fact you must do that anyway, because of another little problem which has cropped up. I don't know whose fault it was, mine, yours, or Raphael's, but we never thought of asking, and he never thought of telling us whereabouts in the New World Utopia is. I'd gladly give what little money I possess to repair the omission. For one thing, it makes me feel rather a fool, after all I've written about the island, not to know what sea it's in. For another, there are one or two people in England who want to go there. In particular, there's a very pious theologian, who's desperately keen to visit Utopia, not in a spirit of idle curiosity, but so that he can foster the growth of Christianity, now that it's been successfully introduced into that country. As he wishes to do it officially, he has decided to get himself sent out there by the Pope, and actually created Bishop of Utopia. He's not deterred by any scruples about begging for preferment. He thinks that sort of thing is perfectly all right if it's done, not for the sake of profit or prestige, but purely out of zeal.
So, Peter, will you please arrange to see Raphael, if you conveniently can, or else write to him, and make sure that my work contains the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Perhaps it would be best for you to show him the book itself, for he's the person best qualified to correct any mistakes, and he can't very well do so, unless he reads the thing right through. Besides, in that way you'll be able to find out how he reacts to the idea of my writing up the results of his researches. For if he's planning to write them up himself, he'd probably rather I didn't—and I certainly shouldn't want to give Utopia premature publicity, so that his story lost the charm of novelty.
To tell you the truth, though, I still haven't made up my mind whether I shall publish it at all. Tastes differ so widely, and some people are so humourless, so uncharitable, and so absurdly wrong-headed, that one would probably do far better to relax and enjoy life than worry oneself to death trying to instruct or entertain a public which will only despise one's efforts, or at least feel no gratitude for them. Most readers know nothing about literature—many regard it with contempt. Lowbrows find everything heavy going that isn't completely lowbrow. Highbrows reject everything as vulgar that isn't a mass of archaisms. Some only like the classics, others only their own works. Some are so grimly serious that they disapprove of all humour, others so half-witted that they can't stand wit. Some are so literal-minded that the slightest hint of irony affects them as water affects a sufferer from hydrophobia. Others come to different conclusions every time they stand up or sit down. Then there's the alcoholic school of critics, who sit in public houses, pronouncing ex cathedra verdicts of condemnation, just as they think fit. They seize upon your publications, as a wrestler seizes upon his opponent's hair, and use them to drag you down, while they themselves remain quite invulnerable, because their barren pates are completely bald—so there's nothing for you to get hold of.
Besides, some readers are so ungrateful that, even if they enjoy a book immensely, they don't feel any affection for the author. They're like rude guests who after a splendid dinner-party go home stuffed with food, without saying a word of thanks to their host. So much for the wisdom of preparing a feast of reason at one's own expense for a public with such fastidious and unpredictable tastes, and with such a profound sense of gratitude!
But do, as I say, get in touch with Raphael. I can think about the other question later—though really it's too late to start being sensible now, when I've gone to all the trouble of writing the book. So if he has no objection, whether I publish it or not will depend on what my friends, and especially what you advise.
Best wishes, my dearest Peter Gilles, to you and your charming wife. And please go on liking me as much as ever—because I like you even more than ever.
Yours sincerely,
THOMAS MORE