28 October 1940 – 3 November 1940

A gloomy evening, spiritually: alone over the fire—and by way of conversation, apply to this too stout volume. My Times book for the week is E. F. Benson’s last autobiography—in which he tried to rasp himself clean of his barnacles. I learn there the perils of glibness. I too can flick phrases. He said, “One must discover new depths in oneself.” Well I don’t bother about that here. I will note, though, the perils of glibness. And add, considering how I feel in my fingers the weight of every word, even of a review, need I feel guilty?