21 September 1931 – 27 September 1931

And Miss Holtby says “It is a poem, more completely than any of your other books, of course. It is most rarely subtle. It has seen more deeply into the human heart, perhaps, than even To the Lighthouse . . .” and though I copy the sentence, because it is in the chart of my temperature, Lord, as I say, that temperature which was deathly low this time last week and then fever high, doesn’t rise: is normal. I suppose I’m safe; I think people can only repeat. And I’ve forgotten so much. What I want is to be told that this is solid and means something. What it means I myself shan’t know till I write another book. And I’m the hare, a long way ahead of the hounds my critics. 52 TAVISTOCK SQUARE. Monday, October 5th A note to say I am all trembling with pleasure—can’t go on with my Letter— because Harold Nicolson has rung up to say The Waves is a masterpiece. Ah Hah —so it wasn’t all wasted then. I mean this vision I had here has some force upon other minds. Now for a cigarette and then a return to sober composition. Well, to continue this egotistic diary: I am not terribly excited; no; at arms length more than usual; all this talk, because if the W. is anything it is an adventure which I go on alone; and the dear old Lit. Sup: who twinkles and beams and patronises—a long, and for The Times, kind and outspoken review— don’t stir me very much. Nor Harold in Action either. Yes; to some extent; I should have been unhappy had they blamed, but Lord, how far away I become from all this; and we’re jaded too, with people, with doing up parcels. I wonder if it is good to feel this remoteness—that is, that The Waves is not what they say. Odd, that they (The Times) should praise my characters when I meant to have none. But I’m jaded; I want my marsh, my down, a quiet waking in my airy bedroom. Broadcasting tonight; to Rodmell tomorrow. Next week I shall have to stand the racket.