19 June 1922 – 25 June 1922

Jacob, as I say, is being typed by Miss Green, and crosses the Atlantic on July 14th. Then will begin my season of doubts and ups and downs. I am guarding myself in this way. I am going to be well on with a story for Eliot, lives for Squire, and Reading; so that I can vary the side of the pillow as fortune inclines. If they say this is all a clever experiment, I shall produce Mrs. Dalloway in Bond Street as the finished product. If they say your fiction is impossible, I shall say what about Miss Ormerod, a fantasy. If they say “You can’t make us care a damn for any of your figures,” I shall say read my criticism then. Now what will they say about Jacob? Mad, I suppose: a disconnected rhapsody; I don’t know. I will confide my view to this book on re-reading. On re-reading novels is the title of a very laborious, yet rather gifted article, for the Supt.