I have now taken, what nearly everybody said I was incapable of taking and never would take, a long holiday. From July 2nd. to yesterday I did nothing whatever in the way of work except three short articles for the New Age, which I was obliged to do. Of course I had to attend to my correspondence; but I kept that as short as possible. I wrote an illustrated journal at Carantec, and I also did a number of paintings and sketches.
We came definitely home on Friday night, and found everything in order. Today I resumed my literary business. The three things that occupy me are: a good short story for T.P.'s Magazine; my "Life in Paris" for the English Review; and a play founded on "Buried Alive".
I have done no regular sustained reading now for something like ten months. So I shall resume Taine. I propose to do as I did in May and June here. Get up at 5.30, and begin creative writing at 6, and finish that on most days before breakfast at 9 a.m. I have now satisfied myself that is my best time for working, particularly now that by means of milk dinners I have cured my biliousness. It is three months since I had a headache due to indigestion. After breakfast I can do my oddments and correspondence, etc., and arrange my ideas for the next day. And thus have the whole of my work finished at noon. Afternoons for reading and painting and crass idleness. I have openly sworn - openly, in order for me to make it impossible to forswear myself decently - never again to work as hard as I have done in the past.