25 September 1933 – 1 October 1933

Why not, one of these days, write a fantasy on the theme of Crabbe?—a biographical fantasy—an experiment in biography. I had so much of the most profound interest to write here—a dialogue of the soul with the soul—and I have let it all slip—why? Because of feeding the goldfish, of looking at the new pond, of playing bowls. Nothing remains now. I forget what it was about. Happiness. The perfect day, which was yesterday. And so on. Now I began the morning by telephoning corrections of Twelfth Night, to the N.S.: put in a comma, take out semi-colon; and so on. Then I come out here, having seen the carp, and write Turgenev.