18 December 1939 – 24 December 1939

Once more, as so often, I hunt for my dear old red-covered book, with what an instinct I’m not quite sure. For what the point of making these notes is I don’t know; save that it becomes a necessity to uncramp, and some of it may interest me later. But what? For I never reach the depths; I’m too surface blown. And always scribble before going in—look quickly at my watch. Yes, 10 minutes left —what can I say. Nothing that needs thought; which is provoking; for I often think. And think the very thought I could write here. About being an outsider. About my defiance of professional decency. Another allusion of a tart kind to Mrs. W., and her desire to kill reviewers in the Lit. Sup. yesterday. Frank Swinnerton is the good boy and I’m the bad little girl. And this is trivial, compared with what? Oh the Graf Spee is going to steam out of Monte Video today into the jaws of death. And journalists and rich people are hiring aeroplanes from which to see the sight. This seems to me to bring war into a new angle; and our psychology. No time to work out. Anyhow the eyes of the whole world (B.B.C.) are on the game; and several people will lie dead tonight, or in agony. And we shall have it served up for us as we sit over our logs this bitter winter night. And the British Captain has been given a K.C.B. and Horizon is out; and Louie has had her teeth out; and we ate too much hare pie last night; and I read Freud on Groups; and I’ve been titivating Roger: and this is the last page; and the year draws to an end; and we’ve asked Plomer for Christmas; and —now time’s up as usual. I’m reading Ricketts diary—all about the war—the last war; and the Herbert diaries and . . . yes, Dadie’s Shakespeare, and notes overflow into my two books.