10 August 1931 – 16 August 1931

I have now—10:45—read the first chapter of The Waves, and made no changes, save 2 words and 3 commas. Yes, anyhow this is exact and to the point. I like it. And see that for once my proofs will be despatched with a few pencil strokes. Now my brood mounts: I think “I am taking my fences . . . We have asked Raymond. I am forging through the sea, in spite of headache, in spite of bitterness. I may also get a .”* I will now write a little at Flush.

I am in rather a flutter—proof reading. I can only read a few pages at a time. So it was when I wrote it and Heaven knows what virtue it has, this ecstatic book.

I should really apologise to this book for using it as I am doing to write off my aimlessness; that is I am doing my proofs—the last chapter this morning—and find that I must stop after half an hour and let my mind spread, after these moments of concentration. I cannot write my life of Flush, because the rhythm is wrong. I think The Waves is anyhow tense and packed; since it screws my brain up like this. And what will the reviewers say? And my friends? They can’t, of course, find anything very new to say.