19 December 1932 – 25 December 1932

Yes, today I have written myself to the verge of total extinction. Praised be I can stop and wallow in coolness and downs and let the wheels of my mind— how I beg them to do this—cool and slow and stop altogether. I shall take up Flush again, to cool myself. By Heaven, I have written 60,320 words since October 11th. I think this must be far the quickest going of any of my books: comes far ahead of Orlando or the Lighthouse. But then those 60 thousand will have to be sweated and dried into 30 or 40 thousand—a great grind to come. Never mind. I have secured the outline and fixed a shape for the rest. I feel, for the first time, No I mustn’t take risks crossing the road, till the book is done. . . . Yes, I will be free and entire and absolute and mistress of my life by October 1st, 1933. Nobody shall come here on their terms; or haul me off to them on theirs. Oh and I shall write a poet’s book next. This one, however, releases such a torrent of fact as I did not know I had in me. I must have been observing and collecting these 20 years—since Jacob’s Room anyhow. Such a wealth of things seen present themselves that I can’t choose even—hence 60,000 words all about one paragraph. What I must do is to keep control; and not be too sarcastic; and keep the right degree of freedom and reserve. But oh how easy this writing is compared with The Waves! I wonder what the degree of carat-gold is in the two books. Of course this is external: but there’s a good deal of gold—more than I’d thought—in externality. Anyhow, “what care I for my goose feather bed? I’m off to join the raggle taggle gipsies oh!” The gipsies, I say: not Hugh Walpole and Priestley—no. In truth The Pargiters is first cousin to Orlando, though the cousin is the flesh: Orlando taught me the trick of it. Now—oh but I must stop for 10 days at least—no 14—if not 21 days—now I must compose the 18801900 chapter, which needs skill. But I like applying skill I own. I am going to polish off my jobs: and tomorrow we go. A very fruitful varied and I think successful autumn—thanks partly to my tired heart: so I could impose terms: and I have never lived in such a race, such a dream, such a violent impulsion and compulsion—scarcely seeing anything but The Pargiters.

This is not the first day of the New Year: but the discrepancy may be forgiven.* I must write off my dejected rambling misery—having just read over the 30,000 words of Flush and come to the conclusion that they won’t do. Oh what a waste—what a bore! Four months of work and heaven knows how much reading—not of an exalted kind either—and I can’t see how to make anything of it. It’s not the right subject for that length: it’s too slight and too serious. Much good in it but would have to be much better. So here I am two days before Christmas pitched into one of my grey welters. True, it’s partly over writing The Pargiters. But I can’t get back into Flush ever, I feel: and L. will be disappointed; and the money loss too—that’s a bore. I took it up impetuously after The Waves by way of a change: no forethought in me: and so got landed: it would need a month’s hard work—and even then I doubt it. In that time I might have done Dryden and Pope. And I’m thus led to begin—no to end—the year with a doleful plaint. It is blazing hot; like spring, with the bees on the flowers. Never mind; this is not a reverse of the first order—not at all.