11 March 1935 – 17 March 1935

I have had three severe swingeings lately: Wyndham Lewis; Mirsky; and now Swinnerton. Bloomsbury is ridiculed; and I am dismissed with it. I didn’t read W. L.: and Swinnerton only affected me as a robin affects a rhinoceros—except in the depths of the night. How resilient I am; and how fatalistic now; and how little I mind and how much; and how good my novel is; and how tired I am this morning; and how I like praise; and how full of ideas I am; and Tom and Stephen* came to tea, and Ray† and William‡ dine; and I forgot to describe my interesting talk with Nessa about my criticising her children; and I left out—I forget what. My head is numb today and I can scarcely read Osbert on Brighton, let alone Dante. In last week’s Time and Tide St. John Ervine called Lytton “that servile minded man . . . that Pandar” or words to that effect. I’m thinking whether, if I write about Roger, I shall include a note, a sarcastic note, on the Bloomsbury baiters. No, I suppose not. Write them down—that’s the only way.