11 October 1937 – 17 October 1937

Yes, we are back at Tavistock Square; and I’ve never written a word since September 27th. That shows how every morning was crammed to the margin with Three Guineas. This is the first morning I write, because at 12, ten minutes ago, I wrote what I think is the last page of Three Guineas. Oh how violently I have been galloping through these mornings! It has pressed and spurted out of me. If that’s any proof of virtue, like a physical volcano. And my brain feels cool and quiet after the expulsion. I’ve had it sizzling now since—well I was thinking of it at Delphi I remember. And then I forced myself to put it into fiction first. No, the fiction came first. The Years. And how I held myself back, all through the terrible depression, and refused, save for some frantic notes, to tap it until The Years—that awful burden—was off me. So that I have deserved this gallop. And taken time and thought too. But whether it is good or bad, how can I tell? I must now add the bibliography and notes. And have a week’s respite.