21 May 1934 – 27 May 1934

At last today, which is Tuesday, after striking the match on the box despairingly, sterilely—oh I was so overcome with rigidity and nothingness—a little flame has come. Perhaps I’m off. This refers to the devilish difficulty of starting Part 7 again after the ‘flu. Elvira and George, or John, talking in her room. I’m still miles outside them, but I think I got into the right tone of voice this morning. I make this note by way of warning. What is important now is to go very slowly; to stop in the middle of the flood; never to press on; to lie back and let the soft subconscious world become populous; not to be urging foam from my lips. There’s no hurry. I’ve enough money to last a year. If this book comes out next June year it’s time enough. The last chapters must be so rich, so resuming, so weaving together that I can only go on by letting my mind brood every morning on the whole book. There’s no longer any need to forge ahead, as the narrative part is over. What I want is to enrich and stabilise. This last chapter must equal in length and importance and volume the first book: and must in fact give the other side, the submerged side of that. I shan’t, I think, re-read; I shall summon it back—the tea-party, the death, Oxford and so on, from my memory. And as the whole book depends on bringing this off, I must be very leisurely and patient and nurse my rather creaking head and dandle it with French and so on as cunningly as possible.