2 February 1920 – 8 February 1920

The mornings from 12 to 1 I spend reading The Voyage Out. I’ve not read it since July 1913. And if you ask me what I think I must reply that I don’t know— such a harlequinade as it is—such an assortment of patches—here simple and severe—here frivolous and shallow—here like God’s truth—here strong and free flowing as I could wish. What to make of it, Heaven knows. The failures are ghastly enough to make my cheeks burn—and then a turn of the sentence, a direct look ahead of me, makes them burn in a different way. On the whole I like the young woman’s mind considerably. How gallantly she takes her fences—and my word, what a gift for pen and ink! I can do little to amend, and must go down to posterity the author of cheap witticisms, smart satires and even, I find, vulgarisms—crudities rather—that will never cease to rankle in the grave. Yet I see how people prefer it to N. and D. I don’t say admire it more, but find it a more gallant and inspiring spectacle.