26 October 1936 – 1 November 1936

I do not wish for the moment to write out the story of the months since I made the last mark here. I do not wish, for reasons I cannot now develop, to analyse that extraordinary summer. It will be more helpful and healthy for me to write scenes; to take up my pen and describe actual events: good practice too for my stumbling and doubting pen. Can I still “write”? That is the question, you see. And now I will try to prove if the gift is dead, or dormant.