10 October 1921 – 16 October 1921

Another radiant day. J. is typing my last story, The Garden Party, which I finished on my birthday . It took me nearly a month to 1 recover ' from At the Bay. I made at least three false starts. But I could not get away from the sound of the sea, and Beryl fanning her hair at the window. These things would not die down. But now I'm not at all sure about that story. It seems to me it's a little ' wispy ' — not what it might have been. The G.P. is better. But that is not good enough, either. . . . The last few days what one notices more than any- thing is the blue. Blue sky, blue mountains, all is a heavenly blueness ! And clouds of all kinds — wings, soft white clouds, almost hard little golden islands, great mock-mountains. The gold deepens on the slopes. In fact, in sober fact, it is perfection. But the late evening is the time — of times. Then with that unearthly beauty before one it is not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light. To be * simple ' enough, as one would be simple before God. ...