I have been busy these last two or three weeks with rather lengthy correspondence. First there was Mr. G. to deal with. Then I wrote a letter, just as long, to Mr. Brady on the question of God. He spent a week in a Hindu ashram at Rishikesh (in the Himalayas). He was originally a Catholic, but gave it up at the age of twenty, but he is one of those people who rather naturally incline towards a mystical view, and he rather likes the idea of God, without altogether being satisfied of his existence. So he finds the Hindu teachings much more sympathetic than the cold Teaching of the Buddha. And it seems likely that the Swamis at Rishikesh have been saying that all religions are One, and that the Buddha, being a Hindu, taught a form of Hinduism. So I set out to correct these ideas. He tells me that he reads my letters repeatedly, so he is worth the trouble of a little effort on my part.
Those Barren Leaves is (or was) probably the one of Huxley's novels that I read more than any other. This perhaps due to the Italian setting, with which I am familiar; but also to the aniromantic attitude of Francis Chelifer, a character from whom I learned a great deal (and much less painfully than by finding out for myself).