1 July 1918 – 7 July 1918

To-day, this evening, after I have come home (for I must go out and buy some fruits) commence encore une vie nouvelle. Turn over and you'll see how good I become — a different child. Later. I have read — given way to reading — two books by Octave Mirbeau — and after them I see dreadfully and finally, ( 1 ) that the French are a filthy people, (2) that their corruption is so puante — I'll not go near 'em again. No, the English couldn't stoop to this. They aren't human; they are in the good old English parlance — monkeys. I must start writing again. They decide me. Some- thing must be put up against this. Ach, Tchehov ! why are you dead ? Why can't I talk to you, in a big darkish room, at late evening — where the light is green from the waving trees outside. I'd like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one. I must not forget my timidity before closed doors. My debate as to whether I shall ring too loud or not loud enough. . . . It's deep deep deep : in fact it is the * explanation ' of the failure of K.M. as a writer up to the present, and Oh! what a good anfang zu einem Geschichte!