13 February 1928 – 19 February 1928

And I should be revising Lord Chesterfield at this moment, but I’m not. My mind is wool-gathering away about Women and Fiction, which I am to read at Newnham in May. The mind is the most capricious of insects—flitting, fluttering. I had thought to write the quickest most brilliant pages in Orlando yesterday—not a drop came, all, forsooth, for the usual physical reasons, which delivered themselves today. It is the oddest feeling: as if a finger stopped the flow of the ideas in the brain; it is unsealed and the blood rushes all over the place. Again, instead of writing O., I’ve been racing up and down the whole field of my lecture. And tomorrow, alas, we motor; for I must get back into the book —which has brightened the last few days satisfactorily. Not that my sensations in writing are an infallible guide.