21 November 1938 – 27 November 1938

I meant to write Reflections on my position as a writer. I don’t want to read Dante; have ten minutes over from rehashing “Lappin and Lapinova,” a story written I think at Asheham 20 years ago or more; when I was writing Night and Day perhaps. That’s a long stretch. And apparently I’ve been exalted to a very high position, say about 10 years ago: then was decapitated by W. Lewis, and Miss Stein; am now I think—let me see—out of date, of course; not a patch, with the young, on Morgan:* Yet wrote The Waves; yet am unlikely to write anything good again; am a secondrate and likely, I think, to be discarded altogether. I think that’s my public reputation at the moment. It is based largely on C. Connolly’s cocktail criticism: a sheaf of feathers in the wind. How much do I mind? Less than I expected. But then of course; it’s all less than I realised. I mean, I never thought I was so famous; so don’t feel the decapitation. Yet it’s true that after The Waves, or Flush, Scrutiny I think found me out. W. L. attacked me. I was aware of an active opposition. Yes I used to be praised by the young and attacked by the elderly. Three Guineas has queered the pitch. For the G. M. Youngs and the Scrutineers both attack that. And my own friends have sent me to Coventry over it. So my position is ambiguous. Undoubtedly Morgan’s reputation is much higher than my own. So is Tom’s.† Well? In a way it is a relief. I’m fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It’s an odd feeling though, writing against the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall. And it remains to be seen if there’s anything in P.H. In any case I have my critical brain to fall back on.