Welcome to our blog!

It's better than a bat in the eye with a burnt stick!

This blog makes liberal use of AB's journals, letters, travel notes, and other sources.

And make sure to visit The Arnold Bennett Society for expert information and comment on all aspects of the life and work of AB.

Wednesday, 20 November 2013

Moving on

Wednesday, November 20th., Les Sablons.

I have had several days of hesitation about the format of this, the 8th volume of my journal. I thought, and still think, it too small for really fast writing, and I can only arrive at getting down my impression of things in full by writing fast - pell-mell, without regard to sentence construction. Mirbeau's book "628-E8" has shown me, again, what a lot of stuff, perhaps as valuable as his, I lose by not writing it down. I have nade, in the last three days, three fullish sketches, that I may use later, and that certainly would have been lost if I had not seized them and held them.
See also 'Achieving intensity', November 17th., -

I still hanker to write a book (and publish it) of personal impressions. Had several ideas lately for articles. One: "The Individualism of Socialism"; dealing with what socialists such as I ought to do in the way of personal living, and dealing also with the fact that all political questions, such as those which agitate socialists, are simply questions of machinery - and do not directly touch the question of living (interiorly).

Mme. Lebert withdrew from her offer to let this house (Les Sablons) with vegetables and fruit for 1,000 frs. a year. She shied at the vegetables and fruit. I would not give way, so we most amicably and affectionately agreed to part. I find myself, on the eve of going to England, without a programme, which is rather disconcerting. However, we are free to live where we like: by the sea, e.g. I feel I want to live by the sea in Holland, at Fontainebleau and on the S. coast of England all at once.

I was getting rather tired of the confinement of this little flat; but one day I shall look back to the evenings here, in the room where I work and sleep, with Marguerite sewing or trying things on her mannequin, and the constant preoccupation of the fire and the temperature and my cold - with regret as a perfect time.

Regularly I have been doing my 2,000 words a day at least. 12 to 1,500 words of my novel in the morning, and pieces of articles in the afternoon. I am now almost sure to do 365,000 words in the year.

Additionally for November 20th., see 'An author's observations' -

Her condition was very distressing, and it seemed strange that this should necessarily be the end of a life, that a life couldn't always end more easily. I went in again at 11.45 p.m. She was asleep, breathing noisily. Nurse, in black, installed for the night. The mater had a frequent, very bright smile; but it would go in an instant. She asked for her false teeth, and she wanted her ears syringed again, so that she could hear better. This morning she was easier after a good night, but certainly weaker. Mouth closed and eyes shut tight today. Lifting of chin right up to get head in line with body for breathing. A bad sign.

No comments:

Post a Comment