16 August 1937 – 22 August 1937

Not much to say. It’s true, the only life this summer is in the brain. I get excited writing. Three hours pass like 10 minutes. This morning I had a moment of the old rapture—think of it!—over copying The Duchess and the Jeweller for Chambrun, N.Y. I had to send a synopsis. I expect he’ll regret the synopsis. But there was the old excitement, even in that little extravagant flash—more than in criticism I think. Happily—if that’s the word—I get these electric shocks—Cables asking me to write. Chambrun offer £500 for a 9,000 word story. And I at once begin making up adventures—ten days of adventures—a man rowing with black knitted stockings on his arms. Do I ever write, even here, for my own eye? If not, for whose eye? An interesting question, rather.