25 September 1939 – 1 October 1939

No, I’m not sure of the date. And Vita is lunching here. I’m going to stop R. at 12, then read something real. I’m not going to let my brain addle. Little sharp notes. For somehow my brain is not very vigorous at the end of a book though I could dash off fiction or an article merrily enough. Why not relieve it then? Wasn’t it my conscientious grind at The Years that killed it. So I whizz off to Stevenson—Jekyll and Hyde—not much to my liking. Very fine clear September weather. Windy but lovely light. And I can’t form letters.