6 May 1929 – 12 May 1929

Here, having just finished what I call the final revision of Women and Fiction* so that L. can read it after tea, I stop; surfeited. And the pump, which I was so sanguine as to think ceased, begins again. About Women and Fiction I am not sure—a brilliant essay?—I daresay: it has much work in it, many opinions boiled down into a kind of jelly, which I have stained red as far as I can. But I am eager to be off—to write without any boundary coming slick in one’s eyes: here my public has been too close; facts; getting them malleable, easily yielding to each other.