3 June 1940 – 9 June 1940

Just back* this roasting hot evening. The great battle which decides our life or death goes on. Last night an air raid here. Today battle sparks. Up till 2:30 this morning.

I will continue—but can I? The pressure of this battle wipes out London pretty quick. A gritting day. As sample of my present mood, I reflect: capitulation will mean All Jews to be given up. Concentration camps. So to our garage. That’s behind correcting Roger, playing bowls. One taps any source of comfort—Leigh Ashton at Charleston yesterday for instance. But today the line is bulging. Last night aeroplanes (G.?) over: shafts of light following. I papered my windows. Another reflection: I don’t want to go to bed at midday: this refers to the garage. What we dread (it’s no exaggeration) is the news that the French Government have left Paris. A kind of growl behind the cuckoos and t’other birds. A furnace behind the sky. It struck me that one curious feeling is, that the writing “I” has vanished. No audience. No echo. That’s part of one’s death. Not altogether serious, for I correct Roger, send finally I hope tomorrow: and could finish P.H. But it is a fact—this disparition of an echo.