Originality

Monday November 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

I have been thinking seriously about the plan of my new novel. I had already got the moral background for it: the dissatisfaction of a rich and successful man with his own secret state of discontent and with the evils of the age. Who might be the model for this I wonder? I wanted a frame. I walked about three miles this morning and about a mile after tea, without getting a really satisfactory idea; then as I was lolling in my 'easy' about 6.30. I suddenly thought that I would extend the role of the train de luxe, which I had thought of for the scene of the opening of the story, to be the scene of the whole novel - so that the entire time-space of the novel will only be about thirty hours or so. I didn't go any farther than this - I had enough for the day.

I feel a little gloomy because, when I think about them, my novels lack imagination. Just think about Wells and Huxley, not to mention some of the new American writers. I have really only ever been able to draw my characters and settings from my own experience. This new novel, for example, derives from a railway accident I was caught up in years ago in France. I recently wrote to Wells to congratulate him on Clissold ll. I was impressed by Clissold l, but Clissold ll is decidedly better. The women are very well done indeed, and it is all keyed up more, livelier, more resilient. It is an original novel. My novels never are.