4 May 1925 – 10 May 1925

This is the temperature chart of a book. We went to Cambridge, and Goldie said he thought me the finest living critic: said, in his jerky angular way: “Who wrote that extraordinarily good article on the Elizabethans two or three months ago in the Lit. Sup.?” I pointed to my breast. Now there’s one sneering review in Country Life, almost inarticulate with feebleness, trying to say what a Common reader is, and another, says Angus, in the Star, laughing at Nessa’s cover. So from this I prognosticate a good deal of criticism on the ground that I’m obscure and odd; and some enthusiasm; and a slow sale, and an increased reputation. Oh yes, my reputation increases.

As for The Common Reader, the Lit. Sup. had close on two columns sober and sensible praise—neither one thing nor the other—my fate in The Times. And Goldie writes that he thinks “this is the best criticism in English—humorous, witty and profound.” My fate is to be treated to all extremes and all mediocrities. But I never get an enthusiastic review in the Lit. Sup. And it will be the same for Dalloway, which now approaches.