3 June 1935 – 9 June 1935

Back here* again, and the grim wooden feeling that has made me think myself dead since we came back is softening slightly. It’s beginning this cursed dry hand empty chapter again in part. Every time I say it will be the devil! but I never believe it. And then the usual depressions come. And I wish for death. But I am now seeing that the last 200 pages will assert themselves and force me to write a play more or less: all broken up: and I stop to begin making up; also, after the queer interlude, at once life—that is the telephone beginning—starts. So that one is forcibly chafed. (I meant to make a note about the dramatic shape which forces itself upon me.)