4 July 1938 – 10 July 1938

Oh the appalling grind of getting back to Roger, after these violent oscillations, Three Guineas and P.H. How can I concentrate upon minute facts in letters? This morning I have forced myself back to Failand in 1888. But Jumbo* last night threw cold water on the whole idea of biography of those who have no lives. Roger had, she says, no life that can be written. I daresay this is true. And here am I sweating over minute facts. It’s all too minute and tied down— documented. Is it to be done on this scale? Is he interesting to other people in that light? I think I will go on doggedly till I meet him myself—1909—and then attempt something more fictitious. But must plod on through all these letters till then. I think contrast the two all the time. My view: his—and other people’s. And then his books.