Yesterday I finished the second part of "Sacred and Profane Love". The book so far is over 6,000 words longer than I had anticipated, and I think the second part is rather better on the whole than I expected it would be when I started it.
I have read Oscar Wilde's "Intentions", and found it really very good, better than "De Profundis". As someone who sees himself as both an original writer and a critic, the idea of 'critic as artist' appeals strongly to me. Wilde is too severe on 'realism', reflecting his own thoroughly Romantic character and style.
I go to Paris tomorrow with some regret. I could easily become a countryman completely. I am now 38, and it occurs to me that I am still trying to find a style of life which suits me. Sometimes I think I am made to be a countryman (or at least could embrace that persona), and yet the life of the city calls me. In a way I suppose that with my English provincial roots (and what roots they are!) I am not really suited to settle in any of the patterns of life which my ideas suggest as being appropriate. Perhaps I have outgrown the possibility of contentment.