3 April 1933 – 9 April 1933

Oh I’m so tired! I’ve written myself out over The Pargiters, this last lap. I’ve brought it down to Elvira in bed—the scene I’ve had in my mind ever so many months, but I can’t write it now. It’s the turn of the book. It needs a great shove to swing it round on its hinges. As usual, doubts rush in. I get it all too quick, too thin, too surface bright? Well, I’m too jaded to crunch it up, if that’s so; and so shall bury it for a month—till we’re back from Italy perhaps; and write on Goldsmith etc. meanwhile. Then seize on it fresh and dash it off in June, July, August, September. Four months should finish the first draft—100,000 words, I think. 50,000 words written in 5 months—my record.