2 August 1937 – 8 August 1937

Will another novel ever swim up? If so, how? The only hint I have towards it is that it’s to be dialogue: and poetry: and prose; all quite distinct. No more long closely written books. But I have no impulse; and shall wait; and shan’t mind if the impulse never formulates; though I suspect one of these days I shall get that old rapture. I don’t want to write more fiction. I want to explore a new criticism. One thing I think proved, I shall never write to “please,” to convert; now am entirely and for ever my own mistress.