23 July 1934 – 29 July 1934

Ah hah—but now, having despatched that entirely disagreeable day, Worthing and Mr. Fears, representing Rodmell Labour Party for an hour after dinner, I’m free to begin the last chapter; and by a merciful Providence the well is full, ideas are rising and if I can keep at it widely, freely, powerfully, I shall have two months of complete immersion. Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order. I can see the day whole, proportioned—even after a long flutter of the brain such as I’ve had this morning it must be a physical, moral, mental necessity, like setting the engine off. A wild windy hot day—a tearing wind in the garden; all the July apples on the grass. I’m going to indulge in a series of quick sharp contrasts: breaking my moulds as much as ever I like. Trying every kind of experiment. Now of course I can’t write diary or letters or read because I am making up all the time. Perhaps Bob T. was right in his poem when he called me fortunate above all—I mean in having a mind that can express—no, I mean in having mobilised my being—learnt to give it complete outcome—I mean, that I have to some extent forced myself to break every mould and find a fresh form of being, that is of expression, for everything I feel or think. So that when it is working I get the sense of being fully energised— nothing stunted. But this needs constant effort, anxiety and rush. Here in Here and Now I am breaking the mould made by The Waves.