23 January 1933 – 29 January 1933

Well, Flush is, I swear, despatched. Nobody can say I don’t take trouble with my little stories. And now, having bent my mind for 5 weeks sternly this way, I must unbend it the other—the Pargiter way. No critic ever gives full weight to the desire of the mind for change. Talk of being manysided—naturally one must go the other way. Now if I ever had the wits to go into the Shakespeare business I believe one would find the same law there—tragedy comedy and so on. Looming behind The Pargiters I can just see the shape of pure poetry beckoning me. But The Pargiters is a delightful solid possession to be enjoyed tomorrow. How bad I shall find it.