7 February 1927 – 13 February 1927

X’s prose is too fluent. I’ve been reading it and it makes my pen run. When I’ve read a classic I am curbed and—not castrated; no, the opposite; I can’t think of the word at the moment. Had I been writing “Y—” I should have run off whole pools of this coloured water; and then (I think) found my own method of attack. It is my distinction as a writer I think to get this clear and my expression exact. Were I writing travels I should wait till some angle emerged and go for that. The method of writing smooth narration can’t be right; things don’t happen in one’s mind like that. But she is very skilful and golden voiced. This makes me think that I have to read To the Lighthouse tomorrow and Monday, straight through in print; straight through, owing to my curious methods, for the first time. I want to read largely and freely once; then to niggle over details. I may note that the first symptoms of Lighthouse are unfavourable. Roger it is clear did not like “Time Passes”; Harpers and the Forum have refused serial rights; Brace writes, I think, a good deal less enthusiastically than of Mrs. D. But these opinions refer to the rough copy, unrevised. And anyhow I feel callous: L.’s opinion keeps me steady; I’m neither one thing nor the other.