13 January 1936 – 19 January 1936

Seldom have I been more completely miserable than I was about 6:30 last night, reading over the last part of The Years. Such feeble twaddle—such twilight gossip it seemed; such a show up of my own decrepitude, and at such huge length. I could only plump it down on the table and rush upstairs with burning cheeks to L. He said: “This always happens.” But I felt, No, it has never been so bad as this. I make this note should I be in the same state after another book. Now this morning, dipping in, it seems to me, on the contrary, a full, bustling live book. I looked at the early pages. I think there’s something to it. But I must now force myself to begin regular sending to Mabel. 100 pages go tonight I swear.