Having returned safely, if rather knocked about and weary, from my short break I have been reflecting on travel as an experience. The traveller, however virginal and enthusiastic, does not enjoy an unbroken ecstasy. He has periods of gloom, periods when he askes himself the object of all these exertions, and puts the question whether or not he is really experiencing pleasure. At such times he suspects that he is not seeing the right things, that the chracteristic, the right aspects of these strange scenes are escaping him. He looks forward dully to the days of his holiday yet to pass, and wonders how he will dispose of them. he may be disgusted because his money is not more, his command of the language so slight, and his capacity for enjoyment so limited. The newness of things grows monotonous; he desires the known, the expected. And there is the question of whether it is best to travel alone or with a companion? If he happens to be alone, then the manifold advantages of companionship will, on occasion, occur to him; though most of the time he will be content to have absolute executive authority over how to spend his time. If he is in company, well ......!
Second day of dyspepsia. Nevertheless I began at quarter to eight this morning, and at 11 o'clock I had been out for a walk in the rain and read the newspapers and written a complete draft of Act ll. I hated doing it. This afternoon, after painting I walked about in Kensington Gardens and arranged the whole scheme, and most of the characters, of my next novel - the first of a trilogy about the son of a Burslem steam printer named Clayhanger. Assuredly a great day!Weather colder but still mainly bright. magnificent moonlight night. What I am always wanting to do is a few landscape sketches, in words, just as material for use. And I never seem to have the energy or the power to concentrate sufficiently for useful observation. But yesterday and Saturday, in my dyspeptic idleness, I had several ideas for new books.
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