8 October 1934 – 14 October 1934

The trouble is I have used every ounce of my creative writing mind in The Pargiters. No headache (save what Elly calls typical migraine—she came to see L. about his strain yesterday). I cannot put spurs in my flanks. It’s true I’ve planned the romantic chapter of notes: but I can’t set to. This morning I’ve taken the arrow of W. L. to my heart: he makes tremendous and delightful fun of B. and B.:* calls me a peeper, not a looker; a fundamental prude; but one of the four or five living (so it seems) who is an artist. That’s what I gather the flagellation amounts to: (Oh I’m underrated, Edith Sitwell says). Well: this gnat has settled and stung: and I think (12:30) the pain is over. Yes. I think it’s now rippling away. Only I can’t write. When will my brain revive? In 10 days I think. And it can read admirably: I began The Seasons last night . . . Well: I was going to say, I’m glad that I need not and cannot write, because the danger of being attacked is that it makes one answer back—a perfectly fatal thing to do. I mean, fatal to arrange The P.s so as to meet his criticisms. And I think my revelation two years ago stands me in sublime stead: to adventure and discover and allow no rigid poses: to be supple and naked to the truth. If there is truth in W. L., well, face it: I’ve no doubt I’m prudish and peeping. Well then live more boldly, but for God’s sake don’t try to bend my writing one way or the other. Not that one can. And there is the odd pleasure too of being abused and the feeling of being dismissed into obscurity is also pleasant and salutary.