18 November 1940 – 24 November 1940

Having this moment finished the Pageant—or Poyntz Hall?—(begun perhaps April 1938) my thoughts turn well up, to write the first chapter of the next book (nameless) Anon, it will be called. The exact narrative of this last morning should refer to Louie’s interruption, holding a glass jar, in whose thin milk was a pat of butter. Then I went in with her to skim the milk off: then I took the pat and showed it to Leonard. This was a moment of great household triumph. I am a little triumphant about the book. I think it’s an interesting attempt in a new method. I think it’s more quintessential than the others. More milk skimmed off. A richer pat, certainly a fresher than that misery The Years. I’ve enjoyed writing almost every page. This book was only (I must note) written at intervals when the pressure was at its highest, during the drudgery of Roger. I think I shall make this my scheme: if the new book can be made to serve as daily drudgery— only I hope to lessen that—anyhow it will be a supported on fact book—then I shall brew some moments of high pressure. I think of taking my mountain top— that persistent vision—as a starting point. Then see what comes. If nothing, it won’t matter.