15 January 1934 – 21 January 1934

I have let all this time—three weeks at Monks—slip because I was there so divinely happy and pressed with ideas—another full flood of Pargiters or Here and Now (odd that Goldie’s letter mentions that—The Waves is also here and now—I had forgotten). So I never wrote a word of farewell to the year; not a word describing the Keynes and the Jones; nothing about the walks I had ever so far into the downs; or the reading—Marveil of an evening, and the usual trash.