7 October 1940 – 13 October 1940

I would like to pack my day rather fuller: most reading must be munching. If it were not treasonable to say so, a day like this is almost too—I won’t say happy: but amenable. The tune varies, from one nice melody to another. All is played (today) in such a theatre. Hills and fields; I can’t stop looking; October blooms; brown plough; and the fading and freshening of the marsh. Now the mist comes up. And one thing’s “pleasant” after another: breakfast, writing, walking, tea, bowls, reading, sweets, bed. A letter from Rose about her day. I let it almost break mine. Mine recovers. The globe rounds again. Behind it—oh yes. But I was thinking I must intensify. Partly Rose. Partly I’m terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity. In London, now, or two years ago, I’d be owling through the streets. More pack and thrill than here. So I must supply that —how? I think book inventing. And there’s always the chance of a rough wave: no, I won’t once more turn my magnifying glass on that. Scraps of memoirs come so coolingly to my mind. Wound up by those three little articles (one sent today) I unwound a page about Thoby. Fish forgotten. I must invent a dinner. But it’s all so heavenly free and easy—L. and I alone. I’ve my rug on hand too. Another pleasure. And all the clothes drudgery, Sybil drudgery, society drudgery obliterated. But I want to look back on these war years as years of positive something or other. L. gathering apples. Sally barks. I imagine a village invasion. Queer the contraction of life to the village radius. Wood bought enough to stock many winters. All our friends are isolated over winter fires. Chance of interruption small now. No cars. No petrol. Trains uncertain. And we on our lovely free autumn island. But I will read Dante, and for my trip through English literature book. I was glad to see the C.R. all spotted with readers at the Free Library to which I think of belonging.