30 December 1935 – 31 December 1935

And today, no it’s no go. I can’t write a word: too much headache. Can only look back at The Years as an inaccessible Rocky Island; which I can’t explore, can’t even think of. At Charleston yesterday. The great yellow table with very few places. Reading Roger I became haunted by him. What an odd posthumous friendship—in some ways more intimate than any I had in life. The things I guessed are now revealed; and the actual voice gone. I had an idea—I wish they’d sleep—while dressing—how to make my war book*—to pretend it’s all the articles editors have asked me to write during the past few years—on all sorts of subjects—Should women smoke: Short skirts: War etc. This would give me the right to wander; also put me in the position of the one asked. And excuse the method: while giving continuity. And there might be a preface saying this, to give the right tone. I think that’s got it. A wild wet night—floods out: rain as I go to bed: dogs barking: wind battering. Now I shall slink indoors I think and read some remote book.