Consists of correspondence from V.S. Naipaul to Margaret Murray Gooding, photographs, negatives, notes, clippings, ephemera, and correspondence between Naipaul and others.

"Yesterday I read all your early letters - from June to July 1972. There were not many of them; but the most startling and impressive thing is the way your personality has since altered, for the better. My poor girl, you were pretty low in those days, having all sense of your place in the world, watching your identity crushed..."

"You killed my child without telling me. I didn't even know that you were pregnant. You never gave me a chance to think about it; you just decided that it would be more realistic. _You never told me_; and if I haven't mentioned it before it is because you seemed so cool about it. What would I have said? I don't want a child; I am complete with you and you alone..."

"I had thought that love and sexual passion would have brought me joy and that secret feeding of the soul; but when I look back I find it has brought me the kind of turmoil and torment that destroys..."

"A birthday wish for you: I want to fuck you and fuck you and fuck you; I would like you to walk forever with the impression of my fucks inside you, scorching you. I can scream with the yearning I feel for you. Not only today, when your letter has come; but on many other days..."

"Did you get my letter of Feb 16? It was a fairly obscene one; but it was written for your birthday the day before. I haven't heard from you in a fortnight, and am slightly [restless?]..."

"There are certain things and ways we still haven't done. The heart natural, the most relaxed, the easiest way I will show you soon: I won't tell you how, but it is meant for you and you will enjoy it enormously..."

"Half an hour ago I tried to telephone you at the number you gave for Patricia's flat. There was no reply. The telephone rang and rang _forever_. I suppose you slept elsewhere..."

"Lover - I can't help it; it is two and a half hours since I spoke to you on the telephone, and I am wet, wet; running wet all the time, and the juice of my love goes to waste, unregarded. Things become precious - things like a weeping god - only when other people find them so; they exist only when they have meaning for someone else, and for me that someone else is you. I alternate between the most violent moods and the most tender; and in both moods I wish you to be overwhelmed by me..."

"Margaret, this was the way the god stiffened when he felt you close this morning - your letter had arrived. I put him flat on this sheet of paper and outlined him in brio. He probably goes on for an inch or two, but that was not easy to outline..."