12 March 1928 – 18 March 1928

I have lost my writing board; an excuse for the anæmic state of this book. Indeed I only write now, in between letters, to say that Orlando was finished yesterday as the clock struck one. Anyhow the canvas is covered. There will be three months of close work needed, imperatively, before it can be printed; for I have scrambled and splashed and the canvas shows through in a thousand places. But it is a serene, accomplished feeling, to write, even provisionally, the End, and we go off on Saturday, with my mind appeased. I have written this book quicker than any; and it is all a joke; and yet gay and quick reading I think; a writer’s holiday. I feel more and more sure that I will never write a novel again. Little bits of rhyme come in. So we go motoring across France on Saturday and shall be back on April 17th for the summer. Time flies—oh yes; that summer should be here again; and I still have the faculty of wonder at it. The world swinging round again and bringing its green and blue close to one’s eyes.