1 March 1937 – 7 March 1937

As will be seen on the last page my spiritual temperature went up with a rush; why I don’t know, save that I’ve been having a good gallop at Three Guineas. Now I have broached the fatal week and must expect a sudden drop. It’s going to be pretty bad, I’m certain; but at the same time I am convinced that the drop needn’t be fatal: that is, the book may be damned, with faint praise; but the point is that I myself know why it’s a failure, and that its failure is deliberate. I also know that I have reached my point of view, as writer, as being. As writer I am fitted out for another two books—Three Guineas and Roger (let alone articles): as being the interest and safety of my present life are unthrowable. This I have, honestly, proved this winter. It’s not a gesture. And honestly the diminution of fame, that people aren’t any longer enthusiastic, gives me the chance to observe quietly. Also I am in a position to hold myself aloof. I need never seek out anyone. In short either way I’m safe, and look forward, after the unavoidable tosses and tumbles of the next ten days, to a slow, dark, fruitful spring, summer and autumn. This is set down I hope once and for all. And please to remember it on Friday when the reviews come in. We have sold 5,300 before publication.