23 April 1928 – 29 April 1928

A lovely soaring summer day this; winter sent howling home to his arctic. I was reading Othello last night and was impressed by the volley and volume and tumble of his words; too many I should say, were I reviewing for The Times. He put them in when tension was slack. In the great scenes, everything fits like a glove. The mind tumbles and splashes among words when it is not being urged on; I mean, the mind of a very great master of words who is writing with one hand. He abounds. The lesser writers stint. As usual, impressed by Shakespeare. But my mind is very bare to words—English words—at the moment; they hit me, hard, I watch them bounce and spring. I’ve read only French for 4 weeks. An idea comes to me for an article on French; what we know of it.