11 November 1940 – 17 November 1940

I observe, as a curious trifle in mental history—I should like to take naturalist’s notes—human naturalist’s notes—that it is the rhythm of a book that, by running in the head, winds one into a ball; and so jades one. The rhythm of P.H. (the last chapter) became so obsessive that I heard it, perhaps used it, in every sentence I spoke. By reading the notes for memoirs I broke this up. The rhythm of the notes is far freer and looser. Two days of writing in that rhythm has completely refreshed me. So I go back to P.H. tomorrow. This I think is rather profound.