28 July 1924 – 3 August 1924

Here we are at Rodmell, and I with 20 minutes to fill in before dinner. A feeling of depression is on me, as if we were old and near the end of all things. It must be the change from London and incessant occupation. Then, being at a low ebb with my book—the death of Septimus—and I begin to count myself a failure. Now the point of the Press is that it entirely prevents brooding; and gives me something solid to fall back on. Anyhow, if I can’t write, I can make other people write; I can build up a business. The country is like a convent. The soul swims to the top. Julian* has just been and gone, a tall young man who, inveterately believing myself to be young as I do, seems to me like a younger brother; anyhow we sit and chatter, as easily as can be. It’s all so much the same —his school continues Thoby’s school. He tells me about boys and masters as Thoby used to. It interests me just in the same way. He’s a sensitive, very quick witted, rather combative boy; full of Wells, and discoveries and the future of the world. And, being of my own blood, easily understood. Going to be very tall, and go to the Bar, I daresay. Nevertheless, in spite of the grumbling with which this began, honestly I don’t feel old; and it’s a question of getting up my steam again in writing. If only I could get into my vein and work it thoroughly, deeply, easily, instead of hacking at this miserable 200 words a day. And then, as the manuscript grows I have the old fear of it. I shall read it and find it pale. I shall prove the truth of Murry’s saying, that there’s no way of going on after Jacob’s Room. Yet if this book proves anything, it proves that I can only write along those lines, and shall never desert them, but explore further and further and shall, heaven be praised, never bore myself an instant. But this slight depression— what is it? I think I could cure it by crossing the channel and writing nothing for a week. I want to see something going on busily without help from me: a French market town for example. Indeed, have I the energy, I’ll cross to Dieppe; or compromise by exploring Sussex on a motor bus. August ought to be hot. Deluges descend. We sheltered under a haystack today. But oh the delicacy and complexity of the soul—for haven’t I begun to tap her and listen to her breathing after all? A change of house makes me oscillate for days. And that’s life; that’s wholesome. Never to quiver is the lot of Mr. Allinson, Mrs. Hawkesford and Jack Squire. In two or three days, acclimatised, started, reading and writing, no more of this will exist. And if we didn’t live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I’ve no doubt; but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.

But it’s a question of work. I am already a good deal pulled together by sticking at my books: my 250 words at fiction first, and then a systematic beginning, I daresay the 80th, upon The Common Reader, who might be finished in a flash I think, did I see the chance to flash and have done with it. But there’s a lot of work in these things. It strikes me, I must now read Pilgrim’s Progress: Mrs. Hutchinson. And should I demolish Richardson? whom I’ve never read. Yes, I’ll run through the rain into the house and see if Clarissa is there. But that’s a block out of my day and a long long novel. Then I must read the Medea. I must read a little translated Plato.