6 April 1936 – 12 April 1936

Now will come the season of depression, after congestion, suffocation. The last batch was posted to Clark at Brighton yesterday. L. is in process of reading. I daresay I’m pessimistic, but I fancy a certain tepidity in his verdict so far: but then it’s provisional. At any rate these are disgusting, racking at the same time enervated days, and must be thrown on the bonfire. The horror is that tomorrow, after this one windy day of respite—oh the cold north wind that has blown ravaging daily since we came, but I’ve had no ears, eyes, or nose: only making my quick transits from house to room, often in despair—after this one day’s despite, I say, I must begin at the beginning and go through 600 pages of cold proof. Why, oh why? Never again, never again. No sooner have I written that, than I make up the first pages of Two Guineas, and begin a congenial ramble about Roger. But seriously I think this shall be my last “novel.” But then I want to tackle criticism too.