15 March 1937 – 21 March 1937

Now this is one of the strangest of my experiences—“they” say almost universally that The Years is a masterpiece. The Times says so. Bunny etc.: Howard Spring. If somebody had told me I should write this, even a week ago, let alone six months ago, I should have given a jump like a shot hare. How entirely and absolutely incredible it would have been! The praise chorus began yesterday: by the way I was walking in Covent Garden and found St. Pauls, C.G., for the first time, heard the old char singing as she cleaned the chairs in the ante hall; then went to Burnets; chose stuff; bought the Evening Standard and found myself glorified as I read it in the Tube. A calm quiet feeling, glory: and I’m so steeled now I don’t think the flutter will much worry me. Now I must begin again on Three Guineas. Something about a masterpiece and how Mrs. W. has more to give us than any living novelist . . . astonishing fertility.