Fresh air

Tuesday, January 3rd., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

I have read about a third of Edith Wharton's "The House of Mirth". Not fine, but capable. No connection with literature; a ceratin fairly agreeable bitterness of satire now and then. It can just be read. Probably a somewhat superior Mrs. Humphry Ward. I stopped reading it in favour of Marcus Clarke's "For the Term of his Natural Life", which I picked up here at Brighton in a sixpenny edition. I am enjoying this though in form and plot it is very naif. I could drop it without tears  Mood and context matter a great deal as far as pleasure in books goes. Here for example I don't expect to read with enjoyment anything 'heavy'. It's a place for crime stories, science fiction and humorous novels.

Today I wrote a New Age article, arranged the outline of an article for The Nation, and schemed out the first nine chapters of "Clayhanger" which I hope to begin to write on Wednesday. This afternoon we moved into our new room on the fourth floor, and I arranged everything for my work. We walked on the pier, and I saw subjects for water-colours and pastels. The weather was bright and bustery this afternoon. Excellently fresh air off the sea. I feel that I can get more air into my lungs here. Tremendous sensation of the chest expanding as one breaths in, and in, and in ... 

The one advance which I made last year in worldliness was having a play put on at a West End theatre for a run. That it failed is a detail. I bet it won't fail ultimately.

I wrote last year: "The Card", novel; "The Glimpse", novel; "The Honeymoon", three act comedy; scenario for "Don Juan", play; seven short stories; seventy odd articles; my journal. Total 312,000 words. Much less than the year before.

An excellent dodge

Thursday, December 8th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

I have been working daily at construction of "Hilda Lessways". I had thought, naively, that this would be simpler, having written "Clayhanger"; but in fact it is not because of the constant need to refer back to make the two 'fit'. Challenging but interesting to do.

As it was pouring with rain this afternoon, I went to the Gare d'Orsay and had tea on the platform-terrasse of the cafe, and walked about for two and three quarter hours, and really worked excellently at the first book, and was moreover all the time amused and diverted by the phenomena of the teminus. At the railway bookstall for example men came up, all sorts of men, threw down a sou, snatched a paper, and departed; scores of them. I remained, staring like a ploughman, vaguely ... This is a most excellent dodge for wet days.

I have been incensed by a letter of one Robert Morley in the Nation. He refers to art works hung in an exhibition at the Grafton Gallery by Roger Fry. Works by Cezanne, Van Gogh, Picasso, Matisse and others which have, evidently, enraged numerous people, especially Mr. Morley. He states: "It is impossible to take them seriously". Idiot! Does he think the artists were having a joke? Does he think that Roger Fry is engaged in a comic enterprise? What about Mr. Bernard Berenson, distinguished art critic, possibly the greatest living, who has professed a profound admiration for Matisse? I wonder if Morley has actually attended the exhibition or is merely reflecting ill-informed, second-hand sentiments. What he means is that a new and fresh approach to art has jarred with his deeply embedded ideas, and he has not the flexibility of mind to engage with it. I have written in this vein to the editor of the Nation.