Friday, January 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
I finished the third chapter of "A Great Man". I have written worse.
In the evening I went to the Concert Rouge and heard Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, badly played, but it had an excellent effect on me. Why are some people, like myself, moved by music whilst others are apparently indifferent? I find this puzzling and it makes me think about how little we have in common with our fellow humans once the superficialities are stripped away. I doubt if we even 'see' the same world, and for certain communication one to another is largely ineffectual. In a way, it occurs to me, the beauty of fiction is that the world created is common to both the writer and the reader; if well written of course.I think that Conrad is particularly good in this respect.
I forgot to set down on the 1st., the brief record of last year. I wrote five sixths of "Leonora" and twelve short stories. Four books of mine were published. The great fact illustrating my commercial progress was that the Windsor Magazine gave me a commission for six short stories. I did nothing in the way of drama.
I did practically no work between January 15th., and March 15th., when I was travelling in Algeria etc. Returning from Algeria i spent a fortnight or so in England preparatory to settling in Paris. Then between April 1st and June 30th. I wrote nearly all "Leonora". At the end of June I went to England and messed about till September 18th. doing scarcely any work - a summer cut to pieces and wasted and therefore not a pleasant one. returning to Paris I spent 10 days in taking and furnishing a flat; then I started work and I have worked ever since. I propose to work almost without intermission at any rate until July 30th.
I bought "The Gates of Wrath" (Tauchnitz edition) and read some of it. Its smartness and clarity prevent me from being quite honestly ashamed of it.
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