15 July 1935 – 21 July 1935

A curious sense of complete failure. Margery hasn’t written to me about my speech:† according to Janie, Pamela thought the whole thing a failure. And it was for this that I ruined my last pages! I can’t write this morning, can’t get into the swing. Innumerable worries, about getting people to dine and so on, afflict me. My head is all jangled. And I have to get that d——d speech printed, or refuse to. The director has written. Never again, oh never again! I think though that I can get the last pages right, if I can only dream myself back into them. Yes, but how dream, when I have to see Susie and Ethel, to see Miss Belsher’s house, to ring up and write notes and order this and that? Well, be still and ruminate; it’s only 16th: there’s a fortnight before August. And I’m sure that there is a remarkable shape somewhere concealed there. It’s not mere verbiage, I think. If necessary I could put it away. But I think no: merely go on and perhaps write a very rapid short sketch, in ink—that’s a good plan. Go back and get the central idea, and then rocket into it. And be very controlled and keep a hand on myself too. And perhaps read a little Shakespeare. Yes, one of the last plays: I think I will do that, so as to loosen my muscles. But oh this anxiety, and the perpetual knocking of the cup out of my hand.

Just now I finished my first wild retyping and find the book comes to 740 pages: that is 148,000 words; but I think I can shorten: all the last part is still rudimentary and wants shaping; but I’m too tired in the head to do it seriously this moment. I think all the same I can reduce it; and then—? Dear me. I see why I fled, after The Waves, to Flush. One wants simply to sit on a bank and throw stones. I want also to read with a free mind. And to let the wrinkles smooth themselves out. Susie Buchan, Ethel, then Julian—so I talked from 4:30 till 1 A.M. with only two hours for dinner and silence. I think I see that the last chapter should be formed round N.’s speech: it. must be much more formal; and I think I see how I can bring in interludes—I mean spaces of silence, and poetry and contrast.

No. I go on getting preliminary headaches. It is no good trying to do the last spurt, which should be much like a breeze in the heavy elms, these last days here: yes, a wind blowing in the trees that are thick with green leaves. For there must be movement as well as some weight, something for the breeze to lift.