22 January 1940 – 28 January 1940

These moments of despair—I mean glacial suspense—a painted fly in a glass case—have given way as they so often do to ecstasy. Is it that I have thrown off those two dead pigeons—my story, my Gas at Abbotsford (printed today)—and so ideas rush in. I began one night, absolutely submerged, throttled, held in a vice with my nose rubbed against Roger—no way out—all hard as iron—to read Julian. And off winged my mind along those wild uplands. A hint for the future. Always relieve pressure by a flight. Always violently turn the pillow: hack an outlet. Often a trifle does. A review offered of Marie Corelli by the Listener. These are travellers notes which I offer myself should I again be lost. I think the last chapter must be sweated from 20,000 to 10,000. This is an attempt at the first words: “Transformation is the title that Roger Fry gave to his last book of essays. And it seems natural enough, looking back at the last ten years of his life, to choose it by way of title for them too. But transformation must express not only change, but achievement. “They were years not of repose and stagnation, but of perpetual experiment and experience. His position as a critic became established. ‘At the time of his death,’ writes Howard Hannay, ‘Roger Fry’s position in the English art world was unique, and the only parallel to it is that of Ruskin at the height of his reputation.’ “But that position was the result of the freedom and the vigour with which he carried on his intellectual life; and with which he extended and enlarged his views. Nor was he less adventurous in the other life. And these two transformations resulted in something permanent. As Sir K. Clark says, ‘Although he was remarkably consistent in the main outlines of his beliefs, his mind was invincibly experimental and ready for any adventure, however far it might lead him beyond the boundaries of academic tradition.’ “Physically, the strain was very great. His health had suffered from the long years at the Omega.” No, I cannot reel it off at all. How queer the change is from private writing to public writing. And how exhausting. My little fund of gossip and comment is dried up. What was I going to say? Oh that the lyric mood of the winter—its intense spiritual exaltation—is over. The thaw has set in; and rain and wind; and the marsh is soggy and patched with white, and two very small lambs were staggering in the east wind. One dead ewe was being carted off; and shirking the horror I crept back by the hangar. Nor have I spent a virtuous evening, hacking at these phrases. I’m enjoying Burke though, and shall tune up on the French Revolution.