5 August 1940 – 11 August 1940

Yes, I was very happy again when I saw Clive’s blue envelope at breakfast (with John) this morning. It’s Clive almost—what?—devout: no, quiet, serious, completely without sneer, approving. As good in its way as the best of my books —the best biography for many years—the first part as. good as the last and no break. So I’m confirmed in what I felt, even when I had that beak pecking walk in March with a temperature of 101 with Leonard—confirmed in what I feel— that the first part is really more generally interesting, though less complex and intensified than the last. I’m sure it was necessary—as a solid pavement for the whole to stand on.

And then Morgan slightly damped me: but I was damp already from Leslie hum haw the night before and the day before and again tomorrow. So Morgan and Vita slightly damped: and Bob slightly elated and Ethel, and some old boy in the Spectator, attacking Read. But God’s truth, that’s the end of it all. No more reviews and if I had solitude—no men driving stakes, digging pink gun emplacements, and no neighbours, doubtless I could expand and soar—into P.H., into Coleridge; but must first—damn John—re-write the L.P.* Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.